Little Flares and Flash Fires
by AutumnMTC
Summary: The first time he meets her, she isn't wearing any shoes. (Cullen/Lavellan, slow burn, in-game scenes and dialogue not recycled)
1. Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

The first time Cullen meets her, she isn't wearing any shoes.

Despite the rest of Thedas burning around him, it's the first thing he notices—he doesn't see the bloodstains on her rough-spun robes or the tips of her sharp ears poking through the tangled, silver hair that hangs limply in front of her face. No, he only sees her toes wiggling in the bloodstained snow as she shifts her weight back and forth, nervously staring at the Breach above them all.

He is… stunned. Whoever she is, she doesn't seem to notice the cold, nor does she notice the wary looks Cassandra is giving her, sword still drawn and ready to strike. She does, however, notice the insignia on his vambraces, and the contempt in her eyes is unmistakable.

He tries not to think about it. She can close the rifts, and that's all that matters.

* * *

The explosion at the Breach is earsplitting and echoes through the valley like the loudest thunderclap Cullen has ever heard. If death had a sound, he thinks, it would probably sound like that.

* * *

The second time he sees her, she is dead—or maybe not? He's not altogether certain. By all rights, she _should_ be dead. Even when the soldiers and scouts come pouring out of the blackened remains of the Valley of Sacred Ashes, he remains convinced that she could not have survived.

He almost thinks he's hallucinating when he sees Cassandra hiking up from the valley with the girl cradled in her arms, unmoving. Before Cassandra reaches him to explain, however, the girl spasms wildly, spilling to the ground in a heap of knobby limbs, charred clothing, and crackling green energy that makes Cullen's hair stand on end. She lets out a strangled scream of pain—

Things move quickly after that. A flurry of activity explodes around Cullen and he finds himself shouting orders at a small group soldiers to get her off the ground, hold her steady. The elf girl is rushed to Haven for medical attention before he can even get a good look at her face.

* * *

She won't survive the night, Solas tells them.

* * *

Two days pass. She'll be dead by morning, Adan mutters as he pours potion after potion down her throat. There's no way her body can handle the anomalous magic that seeps and sputters from her palm. It's just _not possible_ —

But she survives.

* * *

She automatically dislikes him, that much is obvious from the beginning, but Cullen isn't too particularly fond of her either so he guesses it's only fair. The elf grates against his nerves with every sentence she utters in the war room even though they are few and far between, and she keeps her body angled slightly toward the door as if ready to flee at a moment's notice. Her face remains in the shadows beneath a curtain of poorly-braided hair. For hours, she listens to their bickering about the newborn Inquisition: what's their next step, what's the _plan_? She makes eye contact with no one and simply listens, only stopping them every once in a while to ask a question.

Her disinterest is _maddening_. He has to clench his teeth to keep from snapping at her.

When he first heard about the prisoner, he pictured a seasoned warrior with a greatsword attached to her back, scars marring her face, and a determined look in her eye. She was supposed to be a savior, a sodding _hero_. She had to be able to mount all the burdens of Thedas on her shoulders with practiced ease. Though he would never admit such a thing, Hawke had automatically come to mind when he was informed of a miraculous survivor of the Conclave—Maker only knows she's survived other instances that should have been her grisly end. Hawke is a warrior that Thedas would be willing to stand behind: strong, capable, and determined to do the right thing no matter what.

The Herald is none of those things. She is no warrior—not with those skinny, useless-looking arms. She is a mage. A _Dalish_ mage, and a powerful one if Cassandra is to be believed. This should give him some modicum of relief—their savior isn't completely helpless—but hearing how skilled she is only serves to make him more paranoid. Apostates are unpredictable. She cannot be trusted.

They are halfway through a meeting when her hand reaches up toward the staff strapped to her back. Cullen can't help but tense and grip the hilt of his sword a little tighter ( _mage mage mage dangerous close quarters too many people can't save them all)_ , but he relaxes when he sees that she is simply reaching up to tuck a stray lock of silver-blonde hair behind her ear. As if sensing his watchful gaze, the Herald looks sharply at him, her eyes filled with suspicion. She glances briefly at his hand that is still gripping the hilt of his sword, and her lip curls slightly in distaste at the sight. The suspicion in her eyes quickly turns to loathing.

Guilt curls in the pit of his stomach, but he pretends not to feel it. He has done nothing wrong. _He_ is not the dangerous one in the room. He will not apologize for taking the necessary precautions _._

 _Apostate._ He will not rely on her blindly like the others.

Cullen straightens his shoulders and meets her gaze head-on, green clashing with gold above the war table. He doesn't trust her. Maybe he never will. Still, he doesn't care—he _cannot_ care, not if he is to uphold his duties for the Inquisition. She has lived her life unsupervised and unchecked and he _will not let the Inquisition become Kinloch_.

He doesn't let his sword out of his sight until she leaves for the Hinterlands the next morning.

* * *

The reports begin to flood his desk within a fortnight. Cullen reads them one right after another, becoming more baffled by the sentence. Sweet Maker, she's not just doing her job, she's doing it _well._ Efficiently, even. He tries to reconcile his own version of the Herald—waifish, reserved, and irritating to no end—with the version Scout Harding describes in her reports.

In the dwarf's words, the Herald is kind and well-spoken to almost everyone she meets, and she gives everything she has to those in need: she takes the time to find blankets for refugees, even going so far as to directly assault a templar encampment to get them; she helps their hunters in her free time and teaches the locals to make Dalish-style animal traps and fishing lures; she gives them every gold piece she finds scattered in caves and valleys across the land, reasoning that it belongs to them anyway.

It doesn't make any sense, he argues. Why would she spend two days herding a druffalo across the entire region for some lowly farmer? Why would she search caves and ravines for the wedding ring of a man assumed dead? Why would she undertake _any_ of these missions, barring the ones specifically assigned to her? What is there to gain from such menial, thankless tasks? To Cullen, it seems more like a waste of time than anything else. In the reports, she sounds… inspiring. Selfless. Honorable.

She also sounds too good to be true, so Cullen decides to reserve his judgment until she returns.

Regardless, he signs off on the reports and sends them on to Josephine and Leliana for review. Time spent thinking about the Herald is a luxury he can't afford, not with the current state of Haven's defenses. He has work to do.

* * *

After several weeks, the Herald finally returns from her journey to the Hinterlands. She enters the gates atop a hart with her three companions in tow on their own respective horses—Dennet's generous contribution to the Inquisition, he guesses, but Cullen has no idea where, when, or how the Herald managed to find a sodding _hart_ —and the rest of her entourage filters through the gates behind her.

She looks regal atop her mount, silver hair braided intricately down her back in a style that is distinctly elven and breathtakingly beautiful; envy takes root amongst the ladies of Haven at the sight of the intricate knots and twists as she passes by the smithy. Even Lysette stares after the Herald wistfully, touching her own hair absentmindedly in her wake.

As she nears the stables, Cullen spots Cassandra and Varric on their own horses behind the Herald. Varric is saying something and gesturing wildly with his hands, a smile stretched widely across his face—telling a story, he guesses, if Cassandra's scowl is any indication. On the other side of the Herald, Cullen watches as Solas leans over in his saddle and murmurs something to the Herald that makes her lips twitch in amusement. It's the closest he's ever seen her come to smiling and the emotion looks strange on her face.

Distractedly, Cullen calls Rylen over and puts him in charge of the recruits for the moment before he walks briskly toward the stables to meet them. She has brought back multiple wagons heaped with supplies, dozens of eager (though mostly untrained) recruits from Redcliffe, and a curmudgeonly Grey Warden who seems perfectly content to grunt in response to every single question that is thrown his way.

The Herald is also not wearing shoes. Again.

"Herald," he calls out, catching her attention. As she looks at him, he can see the wariness reflected in her eyes; he makes sure not to touch his sword.

"Commander," she replies coolly. With practiced ease, she swings down from her saddle and hands the reins of her hart to the nearest stable boy—he pales as he looks up at the enormous beast and very carefully begins leading it toward the nearest empty stall, muttering prayers under his breath that the beast doesn't trample him to death.

The Herald pads over to Cullen, her bound feet hardly making any noise at all as she approaches. "If you're looking for my final report, you're going to be rather disappointed," she says distractedly as she removes the clawed gauntlet from her left hand; she flexes her fingers and rubs her palm, wincing slightly.

And for a moment, the world stops turning.

Cullen has never been this close to the Herald before, not in broad daylight like this. In the past, she has always stood on the opposite side of the table in the dimly-lit war room, her face tilted downward and her brows creased deeply in consternation. But here in the bright sunlight next to the smithy, he can finally _see_ her.

And Maker's breath, she is quite pretty.

He's never noticed it before—he wonders at his complete lack of observational skills when the sweet scent of the embrium blossoms woven through her hair floods his senses—and Cullen momentarily forgets what words are when she looks up at him, raising an eyebrow expectantly. As unrelenting as the Waking Sea during a storm, her beauty washes over him all at once, threatening to drown him: eyes the color of polished jade, framed by full, dark lashes and nearly-imperceptible laugh lines; high cheekbones, sharp and deeply tanned from her years living outdoors; lips the color of ashen roses.

He can sense her magic from where he stands, metallic like lyrium but sweeter and powerful enough to make him sweat. Her mana reserves are vertiginously _vast_ , practically _bottomless_ and so very, very dizzying. It is as if a sinkhole to the Deep Roads has suddenly opened up inches in front of his toes; he fights to keep his balance and not fall in.

 _She has freckles._

"Commander," the Herald says, peering up into his face with concern. Her eyes are filled with an unfamiliar warmth that makes it hard to breathe, like his armor is strapped too tightly to his chest. "Are you feeling all right? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

Her voice is enough to pull him from his reveries. Cullen clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck to swipe at the droplets of sweat that are trickling down his neck to stain his shirt collar. He does not meet her gaze. "I am… all right, my lady. Your concern—"

"You don't _look_ fine," she interrupts, her voice a little steelier. She crosses her arms over her chest and frowns. "When was the last time you slept? You look exhausted."

Cullen opens his mouth to feed her the same lie he tells Rylen and Leliana and anyone else who asks about his health. He is perfectly finedespite the pounding headache that assaults him in the presence of her magic—Maker _,_ she must have lyrium in her saddlebagsor _something_ —but the words die in his mouth when she steps forward, close enough for him to notice the flecks of silver in her eyes. He is suddenly very aware of his hands and the way they clench nervously, sorely missing the reassuring feel of the sword at his hip.

Slowly, she raises a hand and reaches out—perhaps to check his temperature or to use some healing magic, he doesn't know—and Cullen's heart begins to pound uncontrollably in his chest. He fights the urge to flinch away from her, to grab his sword and strike down the mage before she can poison his mind—no. That's not right. _This is not Kinloch, this is not Kirkwall._ She is the Herald of Andraste, not a blood mage. Fighting his instincts, Cullen freezes and distracts himself by following the delicate lines of the tattoos across her forehead and reciting the Chant of Light in his head.

She is frowning in concentration as her hand hovers mere inches from his face, the hum of a spell ready at her fingertips. Cullen begins to sweat as images flood his mind: blood and the sharp scent of magic and _her_ face, looking down on him with shame and _more blood, so much blood._ His stomach rolls.

Her fingers freeze mere inches from his face as she notices his agonized expression. The concern in her eyes shutters immediately and she drops her hand to her side where she grips her robes tightly, crumpling the fabric.

" _Ir abelas_ ," she murmurs, avoiding his eyes. "That was— I should have asked permission first."

"It's all right," he tells her, cursing the tremor in his voice. _Not Kinloch not Kirkwall but Haven this is Haven and everything is fine._ "You just caught me by surprise."

"Do you…" she trails, shifting nervously. He looks down at her, trying his best to regulate his heartbeat. "Do you suffer headaches often?"

Cullen swallows thickly, wondering what kind of magic allowed her to discover what was ailing him. As she steps back to an appropriate distance, his headache ebbs slightly. He finally feels like he can breathe. "You needn't concern yourself with my health," he tells her. "But… yes, I get them more often than I used to. It is a minor concern, my lady."

She finally meets his gaze, her expression sympathetic. "One of my brothers used to get headaches all the time when he was younger; chewing on dried taproot was the only thing that worked. I'll look for some next time we leave Haven."

"I could never ask such a—"

"You did not ask," she points out. "I am offering."

Cullen rubs his temples and sighs. He's never heard of taproot and wants to say no, she has more important things to worry about, but Leliana and Josephine might murder him if he rejected her help so blatantly. Reluctantly, he replies, "I do not wish to add to your duties, Herald, but I would be remiss to turn down such an offer. Thank you."

She gives him a small smile, one that actually reaches her eyes. "Do not thank me yet. Taproot tastes positively awful."

He decides that he likes her smile—it brightens her eyes and creates a dimple in her left cheek that he wants to examine more closely—but she does not remain with him for long after that. Her attention is drawn by Solas, who comes up behind her and murmurs something in Elvhen that makes her brows knit in concern. She rests a hand on Cullen's forearm, her eyes filled with a silent apology, before she is led away by the elf toward the gates of Haven.

Cullen watches after her, his eyes lingering on her bound feet as they crunch through the snow. She doesn't appear to notice the cold at all. He wonders how she manages it. _I should have Harrit make a pair of—_

"Not what you expected?"

Cullen glances over as Cassandra walks over and stands at his side, arms crossed. Her face is grimy and her armor is dented and crumpled in a few places—Maker's breath, are those _scorch_ marks?—but on the whole, she looks well. She raises a questioning eyebrow at him, looking pointedly at the retreating form of the Herald.

He merely grunts in response, turning his gaze back to the pair of elves in the distance. They are speaking rapidly, their lips forming unfamiliar words that he wishes he could understand. "She is certainly something, I'll give her that."

The Seeker shoots him a sidelong glance, her lips turning down at the corners. "I was surprised to see her talking to you."

"That makes two of us."

"She holds no love for the Order, as I'm sure you know."

"I do not blame her," he answers bitterly, scowling as he remembers their reports of templars attacking civilians along the western roads. _The whole world's gone mad, it seems._ "Still, we were civil. At the very least, I don't think I made her any angrier."

"A good improvement," Cassandra says. She lowers her voice to a murmur, "Still, I was more surprised you did not take her arm off at the shoulder when the opportunity presented itself. You must be feeling better today."

Cullen winces and instinctively looks around to make sure no one is close enough to hear them. A few soldiers are helping unload the carts of supplies to his left; thankfully, the sound of the smithy is enough to grant them privacy. "I can't say it didn't… cross my mind," he admits. "But I would never harm her, Cassandra. You must know that. She is too important."

"I know," she assures him. Her flinty gaze is not unkind as she looks at him, continuing, "Still, it would be wise to exercise caution around her, especially when your symptoms worsen. I imagine being near her magic is difficult for you."

He hums lowly and bites the inside of his cheek. "I usually don't have problems around mages like this. She feels—"

"Like lyrium," Cassandra finishes. She exhales slowly through her nose. "I've noticed it too. For both your sakes, it might be best if you steer clear of the Herald as much as possible."

"You will watch me?"

She inclines her head forward. "Of course, Cullen."

He clenches his teeth and nods tightly, shame pricking at his cheeks. "Thank you. I truly hope it never comes to that."

"As do I," she tells him, dropping her arms to her side. A wistful expression comes over her face and she stares past him. "She is a… complex woman. I know her better than when we left, certainly, and yet when I see her I cannot help but feel like I am still looking at a stranger. It is an odd feeling."

"You've travelled with her for weeks. How can she possibly still be a stranger?"

"The Herald keeps her secrets quite well, Commander. I have tried to pry things out of her and met with little success. Even Varric cannot get her to open up. She speaks only to Solas."

"And yet you still trust her." It's an observation, not an argument.

She nods confidently, her eyes falling upon the Herald. "I do. Her intentions are righteous and she believes in what we are doing. That should be enough."

 _But it isn't._

He hears it in the Seeker's silence, sees it in the nervous set of her jaw. As she watches the pair of elves speak animatedly, he sees a tinge of jealously flit through her eyes. "You know, a short conversation with Sister Nightingale would tell you all you need to know about the Herald."

Cassandra blinks and shakes her head, frowning at his suggestion. "I would know her on her own terms. We have asked so much of her already. To break what little trust we have and go behind her back… no, I could not do it."

"I was joking."

She blinks. "Oh. I did not—"

"It's all right." He gives her a wry smile and shrugs. "I suppose you're too exhausted to deal with my sorry sense of humor."

Cassandra's eyes glimmer with pleasant surprise, and she looks him up and down, scrutinizing him closely as if she had only just realized he had been standing there. "You are in remarkably good spirits today. I must admit, it is good to see you like this, Cullen—perhaps there is still hope for the Order." She inclines her head, a small smirk playing upon her lips. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have many things to do before dinner. I will see you in the war room later tonight."

He nods and bids her farewell, watching closely as she marches purposefully toward the gates of Haven. The Herald sees her pass and smiles in acknowledgement; she is leaning on her staff as she listens to Solas talk—about what, he isn't sure—and only looks mildly interested in what he has to say. Every once in a while, her gaze will drift off in the direction of the woods. A shadow of longing flickers across her face.

 _One of my brothers used to get headaches all the time when he was younger._

He wonders how many brothers she has—are they loud and infuriating like his own siblings, or are they haughty and reserved like the other Dalish he's met? Does she have any sisters? He wonders if she misses them—oh, what is he talking about, of _course_ she does. There's no way she wouldn't.

He wonders why he cares.


	2. This Gifted Heart, Restored

The templar reminds her of the puzzle box she received on her eighteenth name day.

Aerin'ahl remembers that day with startling clarity; the sun had been bright overhead, pleasantly warm against the fresh blood writing on her forehead, still tender from Deshanna's merciless ministrations with the needle. The scent of roasted rabbit and onions wafted through the encampment on the prairie breeze, making her mouth water in anticipation. Everyone in the clan had been in high spirits, ready for the celebration.

Even Theriel and Rhaenar weren't bickering—the boys had sworn a temporary truce in honor of their sister, a gesture that had warmed her heart more than any gift they ever could. The other boys of the clan had given her a myriad of things Aerin knew she would never, ever use: pouches of colored clay beads for her hair, scented oils, necklaces made of woven willow switches. It never seemed to end.

The puzzle box, however, had been a simple trinket, possibly the plainest gift she'd received from any of the boys in the clan—there were no adornments anywhere on its smooth surface, no hinges or levers, nothing to make it look like anything more than a small scrap of wood, save for her own name, which had been carved into the side. She could hear something rattling around inside whenever she shook it. A charm, maybe? A rune for her staff? She couldn't have been sure at the time, but she wanted to find out.

The boy who gave it to her, Tannyll, was the craftsman's apprentice. He had not been strong enough to be a hunter, nor learned enough to become a scholar or a healer, but he was good with his hands and crafted ironbark better than anyone else in the clan, and that was enough for Aerin'ahl. His smile, while rare, was bright and infectious in a way that made her heart flutter uselessly in her chest. Creators, how she cared for him.

And yet, a year's worth of stolen kisses in Faelyn Grove was not a promise. It did not mean he would put forth his own name for her consideration. So when Tanyll had approached her that morning, she couldn't have been happier.

He had blushed something fierce before shoving the puzzle box into her hands, murmuring, _"Shathe melin dhea'him, Aerin'ahl._ "

She informed Keeper Istimaethoriel of her decision as soon as he was out of sight, the puzzle box still clutched in her shaking hands. Her heart was soaring in her chest—she _loved_ Tannyll, and she could finally have him. Mythal be praised!

Their engagement lasted all of two weeks. A band of roaming templars, the scouts told her. He had strayed too far from the hunters in his search for raw ironbark and paid the price for it.

She did not cry, did not scream or tear her hair, did not curse Fen'harel or any of the Creators for her misfortunes—no, Aerin'ahl could not do anything but take the news in unflinching silence. She was First. She had to be strong for her clan, for her people.

So she buried Tannyll, planted a tree, and the clan moved on later that day.

Instead of mourning, she turned to her puzzle box, the only piece she had left of Tannyll. She'd dedicated herself to solving it and fought with it for weeks. Although simple in design, the trick to opening it eluded her at every turn; she rotated it every which way, pressing, pulling, and scratching in hope of finding the hidden release. Theriel suggested smashing it with a hammer; Rhaenar suggested smashing _Theriel_ with a hammer. She'd considered both options, but only for the briefest of moments.

As the days passed, it became easier to endure. Aerin'ahl had resigned herself to her studies and her duties as First, choosing to focus solely on her offensive spells and spirit wards. Should the clan ever come into contact with templars again, she would be ready. No one would fall to those monsters the way Tannyll had, not again. Her hatred was like an ember—rooted deep in her chest, glowing and burning and _waiting_. She had to be patient.

That patience paid off the day Aerin'ahl fell out of the Fade. She was finally in the midst of templars, at the heart of the shemlen's so-called Inquisition. It was her chance to make them feel the same loss that she felt all those years ago.

Commander Cullen had been easy enough to hate at first; Cassandra's frosty looks seemed warm and comforting in comparison to the glares he sent her way during those first few days in Haven. He'd looked exactly like the templars Deshanna had described in her stories—he was tall with harsh features and was in possession of a very impressive-looking sword that could cut her in half in a heartbeat, given the chance.

She knew exactly what he was even before she saw the Sword of Mercy on his vambraces. Once a templar, always a templar, and the commander was no exception.

But she's not so sure about that anymore. He has long since stopped flinching every time she makes a sudden move, but his eyes still follow her wherever she goes, watching and waiting for her to slip up, make a mistake, cast the wrong spell at the wrong time in the wrong direction. He is more comfortable with her. Barely. He still does not trust her, nor she him.

 _He is like the puzzle box_ , she'd realized a few weeks ago, completely ignoring Josephine's instructions for her trip to Val Royeaux. She'd looked at him across the table, frowning slightly. Even then, the commander had looked exactly like a templar on the outside—from the way he would speak of mages to the way he watched her so carefully.

But the more time she spent with him, the more she discovered. Like finding a hidden lever and releasing the catch with a press of her finger, she found that he had always been more than the sigil on his vambraces. Much, much more.

He cares about his men and their families. He believes in the Inquisition so fervently it's almost annoying— _Herald this_ and _Andraste that_ —but his devotion to the cause is admirable, his intentions pure. Mythal preserve her, the man is _kind._ And after their conversation in front of the stables… well, she isn't really sure what to make of him anymore.

The day she gives him the bundle of taproot is the day she begins to think that maybe, just maybe, she's been wrong about him since the beginning.

It had taken days to find it—the Storm Coast had been a disaster zone of rain, bandits, giant spiders, and dragonlings, so getting _anything_ accomplished took her about five times longer than it was supposed to. Thankfully, once Aerin had located the plant, it had been easy to gather enough for the commander's needs; she had made a point not to return Cassandra's questioning looks.

However, actually giving the herbs to Commander Cullen proves to be an entirely different kind of battle.

The bundle beneath Aerin'ahl's arm feels much heavier than it's supposed to be, she thinks, and her face sours as she walks toward the front gates of Haven. She presses the taproot to her chest with crushing force to distract herself—her cabin is still close by, she could turn back if she wanted to. She clenches her teeth in determination. _No,_ she thinks. _I will do this. I must._

The guards glance at her as she passes through the gate and both nod in silent greeting with a muttered, " _Herald,"_ tossed in her direction. Their eyes linger a little too long on her, glancing between her face and the bundle of roots in her hands with thinly-veiled interest; she wonders if she looks as nervous as she feels.

The cacophony of singing steel and pained grunting reaches her ears as she pads through the snow toward the commander's imposing figure. He stands in the same spot every morning with his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw set, perfectly content to scowl at the recruits until lunchtime. She focuses on sharp bite of snow and slush between her toes instead of the deafening rush of blood in her ears from her erratic heartbeat. _He hasn't seen me yet. There's still time to walk away._

"…didn't know better, I'd think that you've never held a sword in your life," the commander's voice reaches her, sounding disgusted. "Again, all of you!"

Aerin'ahl stops next to the tent closest to the gate. She sees the groan from the soldiers more than she hears it and she has to bite her lip to keep from laughing; their shoulders all seem to slump in unison, their movements so in sync with one another that the display almost looks rehearsed. They all mumble some form of _yes, sir_ and begrudgingly settle into their fighting stances.

But her ears are sensitive enough to pick up the faint, "Yes, Knight-Captain," from the soldier closest to Cullen.

Aerin'ahl does not miss the way he immediately stiffens at the title. His hand flexes over the pommel of his sword as if debating whether or not to unsheathe and use it. For a moment, she thinks he will let it slide— _once a templar, always a templar._ His words startle her.

"That is not my title," he spits vehemently at the recruit.

The recruit yelps as his opponent shield bashes him to the ground, taking advantage of his surprise. Aerin's eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. She's never heard the commander's voice sound so… _venomous_ before.

Neither, apparently, have the rest of the recruits. Many of them have stopped their exercises to watch the spectacle, mouths agape and eyes wide with apparent horror. The poor man's face turns whiter than the snow as he looks up at the imposing figure of the commander. "F-forgive me, sir, I did not—"

"Rylen," Commander Cullen barks, letting go of his sword in favor of rubbing his neck. She sees him wince—another headache, perhaps?

The recruit looks between the commander and Knight-Captain Rylen with a horrified expression, almost like he expects to be executed on the spot for his mistake. Aerin presses her fingers to her mouth to hide her smile.

Rylen sidles past a few dumbstruck soldiers, his face impassive. He stands at attention. "Yes, sir."

"Supervise the remainder of the morning drills," Cullen tells him, his voice oddly strained. "I… I have to prepare for the war council later this afternoon."

Rylen doesn't question it. "Of course, Commander."

As the commander inclines his head in thanks, an emotion flashes through Rylen's eyes—respect, maybe? It's gone too fast for her to be certain, but _something_ is definitely communicated between the two. Cullen straightens and turns on his heel, boots crunching in the snow as he lowers his head and walks directly toward the tents—toward her.

The second she sees his pinched brow and the lines of strain around his eyes, Theriel's face appears in her mind with brutal clarity—the shadows of sleeplessness and the tightly-set mouth are almost too familiar. She feels her heart squeeze agonizingly at the sight of the familiar look in his golden eyes.

The taproot suddenly feels wrong in her hands. She should give it to him now; it's her chance to help. She could take away his pain and rid him of that tortured scowl, if only for a little while—but doubt creeps, slithers, slips under her skin like the claw of a demon. What if he refuses? Turns his barbed words on her? It would be humiliating.

Before she knows what she's doing, she is speaking. " _Son vhellem_ , Commander."

He stops so sharply that she almost casts a barrier to catch him, but he miraculously manages to keep his balance. The tips of his flat ears turn pink in mortification when he realizes that it's her. "Lady Lavellan," he sputters. "I— how long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," she says tightly, bunching her fist into the soft fur of her cloak. "Don't worry, I'm not here on Inquisition business." Wordlessly, she holds up the bundle of taproot.

The sudden movement of her arm appears to startle him, and though he tries to hide it, she does not miss the way his eyes immediately dart toward the staff on her back. "I'm here to keep my promise—not transform you into a toad, if that's what you're worried about," she says exasperatedly. "Lucky for you, I left my clan before I learned that particular spell."

The joke seems to catch him off-guard, but it has the desired effect; the stiffness in his posture gradually melts away, replaced with thinly-veiled curiosity as to why she's here, talking to him, of all people. He frowns and peers closely at the bundle of roots in her hand, his face uncomprehending for several seconds.

I finally dawns on him, and his cheeks flush an incredible shade of scarlet. "Is that—"

"Taproot, yes," she finishes wryly. "An old Dalish remedy for headaches and other minor pains." Aerin'ahl wrinkles her nose in distaste, turning it over in her hands. "Tastes absolutely awful, but it works faster than elfroot tea, that's for certain. In your case, I believe it will also help you sleep through the night."

He says nothing, choosing instead to look at her with the strangest mix of curiosity and wonder she's ever seen; his eyes suddenly look less like sharpened bronze and more like honey in the soft morning light as he studies her. Cautiously, Cullen holds out his hand for the bundle of herbs; Aerin'ahl meets him halfway. When their fingers brush softly, it takes every ounce of willpower she has not to rip her hand away and conjure a wall of ice between them.

Aerin'ahl's heart pounds in her chest, though she isn't entirely certain why. This is the least threatening he's ever been around her. She should be jumping for joy at what diminutive progress that they have made together, not contemplating how long it would take to steal a horse from Dennett and ride for the Free Marches, Orlais, even sodding _Tevinter._ Just as long as it's anywhere except here.

The commander stares down at the bundle of taproot in his hands, one side of his mouth curling up in a smile as he runs his gloved fingers along the length of the leather strap that encircles it. She wonders if he can sense its magic, as slight as it is. He hasn't dashed the herbs against the ground yet, so Aerin'ahl takes that as a good sign.

His voice is softer than fennec fur. "I don't— I mean, it's…" He exhales slowly as he collects his thoughts. "I didn't think you'd actually find the time to do it. I had hoped, certainly, but…" he trails off, at a loss for words. "I do hope you'll forgive my ineloquence on the matter. My words always seem to fail me when I need them most. I am in your debt, my lady."

She digs her bare toes into the snow, relishing the bitter cold. " _Ma're vhalla_ , Commander, but you are not indebted to me. We Dalish value deeds over words. You needn't repay me for a gift." She pauses, hesitating. "If it makes you more comfortable, you may think of it as a… a peace offering, of sorts."

At this, Cullen looks confused. "A peace offering?"

"I fear that we—oh, what is it you humans always say?" she murmurs, biting the inside of her cheek. The words are on the tip of her tongue, barely out of reach. " _Fenedhis_ , this is going to bother me. It's one of the stranger phrases I've heard your countrymen use. 'Get off a foot' or something like that?"

This earns an amused snort from the commander and a small smile that stretches the scar on his lip in the most fascinating way. She decides that she much prefers his smile to his scowl, even if it is at her expense.

She can't quite keep the amusement out of her voice. "Laugh all you want, Commander. I am not the one who uses such ludicrous aphorisms."

"My apologies," he tells her, amusement still twinkling in his eyes as he looks up. "It never occurred to me that elves may not share all of our idioms." Patiently, he explains, "If I understand correctly, I believe you're trying to say that we did not get off on the right foot."

"That's it!" she chirps. "Varric always says that to Cassandra when they argue about— well, everything, really. It took me _weeks_ to figure out what he was talking about."

He shakes his head in disbelief, one corner of his mouth still lifted in amusement. "You have my deepest sympathies."

"It could've been worse, I suppose. It made for some quality entertainment, at the very least. I think I'd better tell Maryden she has competition." Aerin'ahl looks past his shoulder wistfully, remembering their trip to the Storm Coast—their bickering had reminded her of Theriel and Rhaenar's endless spats, so she hadn't minded it all that much.

Cullen laughs softly; it is a pleasant sound, low and smooth and sweet; Aerin'ahl wishes she could hear it again. Almost sheepishly, he says, "I feel like I owe you an apology for the last… well, since the beginning, really. I doubt I have been especially welcoming."

"You are not the only one at fault," she assures him. "My personal feelings about templars blinded me. I imagine you have similar issues with mages."

"That's one way to put it," he murmurs.

This is her chance. _Mythal preserve me, I cannot believe I am doing this_. She takes a deep breath. "I have always been willing to admit to my mistakes, Commander. We may not see eye to eye on much of anything, but that is no excuse for my horrid behavior these past few weeks," she says quietly, eyes falling to the snowy ground at her feet. "I fear I may have misjudged you, and for that, I am deeply sorry."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, an invisible weight disappears from her shoulders; the morning light feels warmer against her face as she looks at him, not with fear and suspicion as she has for the last several weeks, but with confidence. Cullen's eyes soften at her words, his fingers still absentmindedly playing with the leather strap around the taproot bundle as he studies her.

Slowly, the commander inclines his head and looks up at her through his lashes, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You continue to surprise me, Lady Lavellan. I accept your apology… and I hope you will accept my own. Perhaps we can start over?"

Aerin'ahl releases the breath she'd been holding, allowing herself to smile brightly at him. "Yes, of course! I would like that a great deal, Commander. _Ma serannas."_ She allows her shoulders to finally shoulders slump in relief. "Creators, I feel so much better now. I was terrified to come and talk to you."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Terrified? Of me?"

"Oh, yes," she replies eagerly. "I sat in my cabin for an hour and came up with a long list of reasons against the idea. I thought you'd still hate me even if I gave you the taproot. I'm not sure if you are aware of this, but you're a rather scary man when you want to be. I mean, it never even occurred—"

"Wait, what?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

She closes her mouth so abruptly her teeth clack together. She raises an eyebrow—had she said something in Elvhen and not noticed it? It wouldn't be the first time. "I said you can be rather scary when—"

"No, before that," he insists, shaking his head. He looks incredulous. "You thought I hated you?"

The temperature plummets and she feels herself instinctively take half a step backwards—Creators, had she been wrong to tell him that? She can't decide if he is angry, upset, or hurt; maybe all three, she does not know. Aerin'ahl is suddenly very aware of the distance between her hand and the staff on her back.

"You—" she stammers, not quite sure how to proceed. "Well… yes. I'm not sure how many other ways your behavior could possibly be interpreted." She looks at him with wide, uncertain eyes, her voice hesitant as she continues, "Are you—I mean, _did_ you hate me?"

"Maker's breath, of course not," he insists, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. The lines of strain have returned to his face and his brow is creased deeply, his eyes stormy and conflicted. "I was skeptical of your intentions when you first joined us, naturally, but I have never hated you. Not for a second." Sighing wearily, he pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. "Josephine is going to murder me this time. I'm sure of it."

Aerin'ahl is entirely speechless. She searches for words; unfortunately, all of the ones that come to mind are Elvhen, and most of them too obscene to ever be spoken aloud, even to someone who wouldn't understand them.

"I beg your forgiveness, my lady." Cullen's voice is strained, stretched tighter than a bowstring. He drops his gaze to the snowy ground at his feet in shame. "I bear no ill will toward anyone in the Inquisition, least of all you. I— oh, Maker, I am _so_ sorry. It's no wonder you've been glaring at me during war room meetings."

She wants to stop him from apologizing again in that voice, the one that reminds her of broken glass—it isn't necessary, it's all just a big misunderstanding, _please_ don't make a big deal out of this, _we were doing so well_ —but the commander reaches out before she can form a single syllable. She stiffens has his calloused fingers encircle her delicate wrist.

Her heart is pounding in her chest because a templar has a firm hold on her wrist and he could kill her at any given moment—it is certainly _not_ because the templar happens to be a very attractive man with large, warm hands and eyes the color of amber. Her ears twitch nervously as he pulls her hand close, palm facing the sky.

Softly, Cullen presses the small bundle of taproot in her hand and closes her fingers around it; he touches her with surprising gentleness. "You must forgive me, my lady," he murmurs. "I'm afraid I am unworthy of such a generous gift. I do not deserve such kindness."

She gawks at him, still not entirely sure how their conversation got to this point so sodding quickly. Aerin longs to explain it to him, tell him that it's fine and she has been just as foolish as he, but she waits one moment too long to speak; she feels him release her hand, he bows stiffly, and he turns to leave.

Before she knows what she's doing, words are spilling out of her mouth faster than her mind can translate them. _"Ahn ane'ma felasil? Ar'ame lasal ma a enansal lanun, ma elana't telir sul'ema ra!"_

Oh. Oh, Creators, _no._

She claps a hand to her mouth and flushes scarlet when she realizes what she's done. Deshanna would scold her for using so much Elvhen around humans _—_ _disgraceful to the Old Ways, our language is_ our _secret,_ _da'len,_ _you should know better._ The commander stops in his tracks and turns around to stare at her, clearly puzzled by her foreign words. All thoughts of Keeper Deshanna vanish as soon as he captures her gaze.

"L-Lady Lavellan?" he inquires lowly, shifting uncomfortably in the snow. His gaze darts over his shoulder in the direction of his own tent as if gauging whether or not he might be able to slip away unnoticed.

She doesn't want him to leave, not like this. She has to do _something_. Aerin's free hand drops from her mouth to cover the bundle of taproot he had returned to her; she squeezes it tightly like it's the only thing anchoring her to this spot.

"I said," she begins slowly, taking a step forward, then another, "that I gave you a gift, Commander. You cannot simply return it." She can see the conflict written plainly across his features as she draws closer, finally coming to stand directly in front of him. Nerves flutter in her chest and she inhales sharply. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but is it not rude to refuse a gift in your country—especially one from a lady?"

He winces. The pained exasperation on his face is nothing short of comical. "You don't know classic Ferelden idioms, but you know _that_?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I do pay attention during those war room meetings," Aerin remarks, smiling wryly.

For a moment, it looks like he will refuse her and turn away, but she does not have the chance to fret for long. He exhales through his nose and laughs sharply, shaking his head as if he cannot believe she is really standing in front of him, saying these things—like she's something he conjured in his imagination. "Andraste preserve me," he murmurs. "Josephine will be thrilled to know she's rubbing off on you."

Aerin's face sours. "If you tell her, I'm putting rashvine nettles in your bedroll. Don't think I won't."

He tries his best to look askance at the suggestion but the curve of his lips betrays him. "I would never, my lady."

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and holds out the bundle of herbs to the commander expectantly. "I have no use for taproot, Commander; my headaches are few and far between. Please, I will not take no for an answer."

He regards her carefully for several moments, his eyes glinting with an emotion she cannot place. "No, I don't imagine you would," he murmurs. Carefully, he takes the bundle of herbs from her outstretched hand. "I— thank you."

"When you feel the beginnings of a headache, break off a piece the size of your fingertip and chew it, but do not swallow. Your symptoms should disappear within the hour," she tells him, watching his hand where he grips the bundle of taproot almost like he is afraid to drop it. "You can use more if you're having trouble sleeping, but be cautious." A memory flashes through her mind that startles a bright laugh out of her. "Theriel ate an entire root one night and slept for two days straight. I drenched him with a bucket of water, but even that did not rouse him; I'd hate to have to do the same to you, Commander Cullen."

Cullen looks sharply at her, eyes glimmering with equal parts curiosity and uncertainty. "Theriel is… one of your brothers, I assume?"

Aerin'ahl stiffens. _Fenedhis lasa,_ she has said too much! She swallows the nervousness in her throat and smiles weakly as she tries to come up with an excuse, a lie, _anything_ —but she cannot focus when he looks at her like that. She cannot lie to him, no matter how much she wants to.

"Yes," she breathes softly. "Theriel is— well, he is my older brother."

Cullen's face twists at the melancholy note in her voice. "I've struck a nerve. Forgive me, my lady; I shouldn't have pried."

"It's quite all right," she assures, waving him off. She fails to keep the grimace from her face. "Just… don't tell Varric, all right? I'd prefer to keep this between us. At least until I receive word from my clan." Her voice lowers, barely above a whisper. " _If_ I receive word."

Cullen says nothing. She hesitates to look up and see the inevitable discomfort written across his features, but when she finally does, she is pleasantly surprised to find no trace of judgment or uneasiness. His eyes are warm and they shine with soft, honeyed sympathy that makes her throat tighten uncomfortably.

"A conversation for another time, perhaps," he murmurs, almost phrasing his words like a question.

His tone is not pressing, not demanding to know more—no, he is not that kind of person, she can see that now. He _understands_ her need for space on the matter. Silently, she wonders if the commander has secrets of his own—secrets he has buried beneath mountains of paperwork just as she has buried her own beneath her duties to the Inquisition. She wonders what they are.

She wonders why she cares.

"Another time, indeed," she hums, smiling softly.

* * *

 **This is going to turn into four more consecutive chapters, at** _ **least**_ **. So much for "random oneshots." Idk. If you liked it, let me know. Your reviews keep me going.**

 **Elvhen translations:**

 _ **Shathe melin dhea'him, Aerin'ahl.**_ (Happy name day, Aerin'ahl.)

 _ **Son vhellem.**_ (Well met.)

 _ **Ma're vhalla**_ **.** (You're welcome.)

 _ **Fenedhis**_ **.** (A common curse. _**Fenedhis lasa**_ is just an extension of it.)

 _ **Ahn ane'ma felasil? Ar'ame lasal ma a enansal lanun, ma elana't telir sul'ema ra!**_ (Where do you think you're going? I gave you a gift, you can't just give it back!)

 **You all should know the basics like "ma serannas" and stuff. If you don't, what are you even doing here? Like, really.**


	3. Gifts Returned, Ne're Wrought

**This is unedited, but my friend is pulling into my driveway right now to pick me up for Dungeons and Dragons, so I'll edit it when I get home. Much love to all of you!**

* * *

 _Herald,_

(No, too formal.)

He balls up the parchment and throws it blindly over his shoulder before grabbing another piece from the stack at his elbow.

 _My lady,_

(She's not _technically_ a lady. That's more of a human title, he thinks. Do the Dalish even _have_ titles? He remembers her talking about being First of her clan. That's an important position, so there's probably a more respectful way he's supposed to address her—not that he has any way of finding out, short of asking her directly. It's too risky.)

The parchment crumples neatly in his fist and lands somewhere on his bedroll.

 _Your Worship,_

(Maker's breath, _no._ She hates it when people call her that. Anyone with two eyes and a brain can see it, plain as day. He laughs softly, thinking about the way her nose scrunches up in distaste whenever she hears those words aimed in her direction. He could never call her that intentionally, much less mean it.)

He starts anew on a fresh sheet of vellum.

 _Aer_

With horror, he realizes he has no idea how to spell her name. He knows it's complicated and has lots of vowels and an apostrophe thrown in for some Void-forsaken reason. (It's also the most beautiful sound he's ever heard in his entire life, not that he'll ever admit that.) Besides, no one calls her by her first name except Solas. Maybe it's an elf thing.

Again, the piece of paper sails over his shoulder in a crumpled heap, landing softly near the others. He starts again.

 _Lady Lavellan,_

There, he thinks, staring down at the ink with immense satisfaction as it dries. It's perfect—not too neutral or cold, but not too familiar, either. A happy medium. He eagerly dips his quill in his inkwell and writes the rest of his carefully-planned note, being careful not to drip ink anywhere on the page.

 _Lady Lavellan,_

 _I thought you could use these. They should be the right size._

 _Regards,_

 _Commander Rutherford_

He picks up the vellum by a corner and blows lightly on the ink to help it dry faster, fighting to keep his knee from jiggling up and down nervously while he waits. He shouldn't be this nervous—he's not technically doing anything inappropriate. Colleagues give each other gifts all the time. It's completely normal for him to be concerned about her and it's naturally expected of someone in his position to be worried and _he should not be this nervous._

He groans and lets the parchment flutter to the surface of his desk, dropping his face into his clammy hands. Maker's breath, what is _wrong_ with him? He feels sick. Maybe he's coming down with something. Perhaps he should wait a few days—

No. He cannot wait to do this. If he waits any longer, she'll leave for Val Royeaux and he'll have to wait another month to give them to her. It has to be today.

Cullen looks at the boots through his fingers. Harritt has outdone himself this time: made of supple brown leather, the boots are inlaid with lightweight silverite scales that gleam in the firelight, offering ample protection without sacrificing movement; the stitching is even and precise around the knee-high cuff, forming an intricate pattern of overlapping leaves that reminds Cullen of the ivy she sometimes weaves through her hair; the inside is lined with dark blue everknit wool, for warmth. The shoes are a masterwork, a prime example of the finest craftsmanship this side of the Frostbacks.

…but what if she hates them?

Deep down, he knows that even if she does hate them, she will smile and thank him all the same. He has nothing to fear. His racing heart begs to differ, though.

Ever since she gave him the taproot, things have been… different. He knows this. He no longer feels the need to watch her so carefully, and she doesn't glare at him during meetings—instead, she smiles at him and asks his opinion more often, never needing to feign interest. She has also started coming down to the training grounds to ask him questions about the templars.

" _As First of my clan, it has always been my job to seek out as much information as I can. I find my knowledge of the templars rather lacking," she'd explained, taking her spot at his side so they could watch the recruits. She gave him a sidelong glance and a smirk. "Indulge me, Commander."_

At first, answering her questions had been easy enough—she asked about templar beliefs, his training, and his days in the Circle. (Not Kinloch, though. He could never tell her that, not when she'd only just begun trust him. Maybe not ever.) Their conversations were short, never lasting more than a few minutes at a time due to her busy schedule, but Cullen had enough sense to be thankful for what little time she lent him. It was more than he deserved.

She never seemed to run out of questions about templars; her curiosity was nearly insatiable. She'd even asked about his templar vows at one point, her voice sweet and inquisitive and entirely too distracting, Maker help him. Cullen's cheeks warm uncomfortably as he remembers the way he'd sputtered his answer that _no,_ he had not taken any vows of celibacy, nor would he ever want to. Considering her limited knowledge on the subject, it was a perfectly logical thing for her to ask, but he still had trouble looking her in the eye for a few days afterward.

At some point in between her return from Val Royeaux and her trip to the Fallow Mire, she had stopped asking him about templars and switched to more personal inquiries. He doesn't remember when the change occurred, but before he knew it, Cullen found himself detailing his childhood in Honnleath, from his daily chores to the way Branson used to tie Mia's hair to the bedbolts while she slept. (He had earned one of her rare laughs for that particular story.)

Every now and then, five minutes will turn into ten, and occasionally ten becomes half an hour—those rare mornings are his favorite. Even on her busiest days when she doesn't have time to speak with him, Cullen will glance periodically at the gates of Haven in hopes of seeing the familiar flash of her silver hair; sometimes he catches a glimpse of her smile or the smallest hint of a wave, and that is enough to tide him over until their next conversation.

Maybe it's selfish of him to crave her attention like this—perhaps she merely tolerates him for the sake of the Inquisition, for her duty to Thedas, and her upbringing as First—but he cannot bring himself to stop. Talking to her is easier than breathing. It is more satisfying than the taste of lyrium, and twice as addictive. Maker's breath, she is _dangerous_.

But he doesn't care. She is a mage who doesn't look at him like he's a monster or a murderer, and that's good enough for him.

Commissioning the boots from Harritt had been a knee-jerk reaction. Cullen wanted to thank Lady Lavellan for the taproot—it had worked even better than he could've imagined, despite the bitter taste—and to apologize for his unwelcoming demeanor during those first few weeks. Giving her a proper pair of shoes will never fix his mistakes, but it might help bandage the wound a little better.

...really, though, he just wants to see her wear a Void-taken pair of shoes for _once_.

Cullen stares at the glittering silverite scales that are inlaid on the front of the boots, suddenly feeling rather numb. He checked every Dalish book in the chantry's library in hopes of finding an explanation for her foot wrappings, but ultimately came up with nothing. It's clearly an elven custom—some of the elves in Kirkwall wrapped their feet with leather straps, including Hawke's warrior friend with the strange tattoos—but many other elves in the alienage wore normal shoes like everyone else. Why?

It makes sense to go barefoot in the Free Marches, where the weather is warm year-round, but going barefoot in the snowy recesses of the Frostback Mountains? He has no idea how she keeps her toes from getting frostbite, or how the soles of her feet haven't been sliced to ribbons on sharp rocks. The shoes are a good idea, he tells himself. A practical, appropriate gift for the Commander of the Inquisition to give to the Herald of Andraste.

…but _what if she hates it?_

Cullen groans and rubs his temples, sinking lower into his desk chair. He glowers at the note on his desk like he can will it to leap into the candlelight and turn to ash, but it doesn't move despite his urging.

It's now or never.

With a sigh, he pushes out of his chair and reaches for his armor, donning it piece by piece while constantly reminding himself that this is a _good_ idea. He will not somehow manage to insult her in seven different secret ways or criticize her life choices by offering her a pair of nice shoes. He will not ruin one of his only friendships the same way he's ruined every other good thing in his life. He will not mess this up.

The morning air is brisk and sharp against his face as he exits his tent, boots under one arm and his note folded neatly between his gloved fingers. Dawn has just broken over the distant peaks of the Frostbacks, painting the entire valley a faint shade of purple; only a handful of guards and recruits are awake to salute him as he walks toward Haven's front gates. He nods tightly at all of them in turn, adjusting his cloak so the boots aren't quite as visible.

Cullen approaches her cabin with light footsteps and pauses just shy of the stoop, hesitating. Her windows are dark and her chimney emits no smoke—she must still be asleep. He mentally chastises himself for being so foolish. Of _course_ she's still sleeping, why would she need to get up at this hour of the day?

He looks down at the note in his hand and winces. Time for plan B.

Almost reverently, Cullen sets the boots on her doorstep, meticulously straightening them until they're parallel with one another. He slips the note in between one of the leather straps near the cuff of one of the boots—secure enough that it won't blow away, but not hidden enough to go unnoticed.

It'll have to do.

* * *

It's pure coincidence that he's nearby when she finally emerges from her cabin.

For the last hour and a half, Cullen has been cross-referencing Seggrit's prices with the list of Inquisition-approved prices per unit that Josephine keeps in one of the drawers in her office. He's been meaning to get around to this. Honestly, it's long overdue—the man's prices are marked up ridiculously high. Cullen is _not_ doing such a menial task just because the Herald's doorway happens to be within eyeshot of the merchant's stand. Not at all.

He's glancing over the cost per fennec fur (outrageous, really) when he hears the creak of her door as it opens across the way. He stiffens—without being too obvious, he glances up at her.

She has forgone her armor today in favor of a loose-fitting white linen shirt and dark trousers—her training outfit. She must plan on sparring with Solas later this afternoon. A deep red cloak hangs from her shoulders and brushes the ground behind her feet, which are bound with leather as per usual. Willow switches are woven through the complex silver braid that rests over her shoulder.

She notices the boots instantly and freezes mid-step, hand still on the doorknob. She cocks her head to one side and squats to get a closer look, balancing expertly on the balls of her feet. Her eyes are narrowed utter confusion, her brow furrowed. Cullen tries to remember how to breathe as she reaches for the note.

Andraste preserve him, she's reading it and she doesn't look happy at _all_. Her face sours and she mutters something under her breath, lips forming a curse in Elvhen she often uses, though the meaning has escaped him every time. Sharply, the Herald snaps her head up and scans the courtyard; she is scowling and her ears are twitching, cheeks flushed scarlet. When her eyes fall on Cullen, he pretends to read the stock list in his hands and hopes she hadn't caught him staring. Thankfully, her piercing gaze passes over him as if he isn't even there.

Cullen feels a weight drop into the pit of his stomach that's colder and heavier than anything he's ever felt before. This must be some kind of divine punishment for his actions in Kirkwall, or perhaps for what happened at Kinloch all those years ago. Not that it matters at this point, he thinks miserably. He's ruined one of the few good things in his life. Again.

The Herald stands and pockets the note, still muttering to herself. She closes the door to her cabin, locks it, and turns to walk away, but she makes sure to give the boots on her doorstep a wide berth as she skirts around them.

What, is she just going to _leave_ them there?

At first, he worries that she's going to make a beeline for him and roast him inside his armor for his impertinence, but he is relieved to see her turn toward the Chantry instead. (In the back of his mind, Cullen realizes that she is probably going to call a war room meeting, and he should probably be present for that, being the commander of their armies and whatnot. He just can't seem to move his feet at the moment.)

She spares him a glance as she passes Seggrit's. He flinches automatically, expecting her green eyes to be as bright and venomous as the mark on her hand, but when he meets her gaze, he is shocked to find nothing but… warmth. The corners of her mouth quirk in a warm smile and she inclines her head in pleasant greeting as she breezes past him, almost like—

Like she hadn't hated the gift.

 _Maker's breath,_ he thinks, staring at her retreating back as feeling slowly begins to return to his hands and feet. _What just happened?_

* * *

"—and I'm telling you," Cassandra snaps, slamming her fist down on the table, "we do not have the influence to approach the Order, nor the time. If Redcliffe is in the hands of a magister, we cannot stand idly by."

"I agree," Josephine chimes. She begins scribbling notes furiously. "If we manage secure Redcliffe, we'll have the respect of the nobles of Ferelden, as well as the support of the mage rebellion. We must act."

Leliana purses her lips. She stands at the end of the table, eyes glinting deviously in the firelight as she scrutinizes the metal markers and pins that are scattered across the map. "I… see your point. Perhaps the mages are our best option after all."

Have they lost their sodding _minds_?

Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to breathe— _in, out, in, out, happy thoughts, happy thoughts—_ all while trying to organize his thoughts before speaking _._ On the other side of the table, the Herald remains completely silent, save for the sound of her steady breathing; she's hardly said a word this entire meeting, choosing instead to listen to each of her advisors and their opinions on the situation in Redcliffe. She obviously supports the mages, which was to be expected, but she has not ruled out the templars, either. Cullen suspects their conversations by the training grounds are giving her pause.

He has no idea whether she's upset with him or not, but at this point, it's the last thing on his mind. This morning feels like it happened ages ago—the five of them have been trapped in this room for hours, arguing in endless circles about the mages and the templars and _supposed time magic_. He doesn't know who this Dorian Pavus is, but Cullen doesn't trust anyone from Tevinter, magister or no.

Yes, it's bad that Redcliffe castle has been seized by Magister Alexius and the man has an army of mages behind him, but he had earned the rebellion's support far too easily for Cullen's taste. If the mages can be won over so easily, what's to keep them from walking out on the Inquisition? They have no guarantee the mages will keep their word, should they propose an alliance.

"You cannot seriously be considering this," he mutters tightly, looking at all four of the women in turn. The Herald does not meet his eyes. "The mage rebellion has no infrastructure, no discipline. Their entire cause will crumble at the slightest hint of resistance. You would rather let mages go unchecked—"

"Not unchecked," Cassandra insists. "Not completely. I would not let the templars go unchecked either, Commander. Both are dangerous. Regardless of which side we pick, there must be safeguards put in place. For everyone's safety."

Leliana stares him down coolly, her eyes unreadable. "Their organization may be poorly structured, but you forget that the Herald is a powerful mage herself. They will trust her. If nothing else, they may choose to follow her on principle alone."

"That's not a good basis for loyalty and you know it," he snaps.

"We cannot close the Breach without support from _someone_ , Commander."

"I am perfectly aware of that!"

"Then what would you have us do?"

Josie glances nervously between the two of them. Cassandra, on the other hand, makes a disgusted noise and leans a hip against the table next to Lady Lavellan. The Seeker crosses her arms and mutters something under her breath to the Herald that makes her ears twitch in what he now knows is amusement.

Cullen tears his gaze from them and turns back to Leliana. Her eyes are frigid and unfeeling, much like a snake. "We cannot leave this up to chance," he retorts, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. "Just because the mages _might_ follow the Herald is not a good enough reason for her to risk her life." He turns to the Herald, his voice strained. "The templars will respond well to the chain of command we have in place. If we talk to them, they will see sense and help us close the Breach. I'm sure of it."

"Or they might kill her the second they see the staff on her back," Josephine mutters.

"She will risk her life regardless of which side we choose, Commander. You cannot guarantee anything, nor can I." Leliana persists. Her voice is irritatingly calm, her words saccharine and sickeningly cold at the same time. He hates how right she is. "It is her life on the line. I say we let her choose."

Josephine turns to the Herald, who is staring intently at the metal marker that sits over Redcliffe. "Your Worship, we must make a decision. Shall we side with the mages or the templars?"

At first, it seems like the Herald does not hear her. She traces the outline of the Hinterlands with the tip of her index finger and does not look at any of them; her face is lowered, shadowed in the torchlight. Cullen awaits her response with bated breath— _the templars are safer, they will protect you, they will protect_ everyone _—_ but the silence drags on.

"Whatever you choose," Cassandra murmurs, breaking the silence. She shifts closer to the Herald, "I will support your decision."

She looks up finally and gives the Seeker a tight smile, nodding. " _Ma serannas_ , Cassandra. But that does not make this any easier."

Several beats of silence pass. No one says a word, no one moves as they wait for the Herald's decision. She slowly turns to look at Josephine, being careful to avoid Cullen's own searching gaze.

His heart plummets in his chest before she can even open her mouth.

"I will ride for Redcliffe Castle," she says quietly. "Cassandra, you and Varric will accompany me, as well as this… Dorian. I think his past relationship with the magister and his son may be able to help with negotiations."

Cassandra frowns slightly at the mention of Dorian. She does not voice her concern, however, replying, "Of course. I will requisition our supplies tomorrow morning."

"Josephine, respond to Magister Alexius' invitation," she continues, eyes trained on Redcliffe's marker on the map. "Inform him that I will be arriving with two party members and a small escort of soldiers. I want to keep Dorian a surprise as long as I possibly can; we will leave within the fortnight, but he will ride three days ahead to allay suspicion."

Josie inclines her head. "It will be done, Your Worship."

"Leliana, your spies will infiltrate the castle through the secret entrance you mentioned earlier. Once we are inside with Alexius, put them to work. Hopefully, they will be able to dispatch the guards before the magister tries to kill me." She pauses. "But I am usually not that lucky. He'll probably try to kill me ahead of schedule. Air on the side of caution and make sure your assassins are in position as early as possible, all right?"

The spymaster's conniving smile makes his skin crawl. "With pleasure."

The Herald murmurs her thanks. Finally, she turns to him, her voice soft. "Cullen, I require only thirty soldiers, if you can spare them."

He can see her sorrow on her face plainer than the branches tattooed on her forehead. He wishes he could tell her that it's all right, that siding with the mages will get the job done and that's all that matters, but he just… can't. He doesn't trust mages, maybe he never will. Not completely, at least. He'd learned his lesson. Of course, _she_ is different than the Circle mages in every possible way—born to lead, raised in the wild, and trained without fear of imprisonment, execution, or Tranquility. She is the only exception to his rule.

But he still wishes she'd chosen the templars.

He swallows thickly and nods once, dropping his gaze to the floor. He may not agree with her decision, but it is the one she made and he will respect that, regardless of the outcome. "I'll have a list of names for you tomorrow morning, my lady."

She gives him a small, sad smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. A pang of guilt shoots through his chest—he shouldn't be upset with her, not for something like this—and he opens his mouth to apologize, but she turns away before he has the chance. She looks across the table at Josephine. "If that's everything, we should begin preparations. I have a feeling this trip to Redcliffe will not be as easy as it sounds."

Josephine nods distractedly, resuming her scribbling. "For your sake, I hope you are wrong. That was all we needed to discuss this time, but perhaps—"

"Actually," Leliana quips, "there is something else."

Josephine gives her a puzzled look. The Herald raises an inquisitive eyebrow and braces her hands against the table, leaning forward. "Oh?"

Sister Nightingale's eyes sparkle with mirth as she reaches toward a stack of papers and letters at the opposite end of the war table. She sifts through them, finally slipping a sealed letter from the stack; from where he stands, Cullen can see two nonsensical words written on one side of the envelope in looping, elegant script— _Asa'ma'lin Aerin'ahl_. She also produces a small, oval-shaped package the size of her fist that is wrapped tightly in what appears to be an oversized leaf.

The Herald lets out a strangled, shuddering gasp that startles all of them, and they watch as her calm, collected façade suddenly crumbles to dust.

For the first time, she does not look like the Herald of Andraste, the figurehead of the Inquisition—she looks every inch the homesick young elf who has been forcibly separated from her people by things beyond her control. Cullen watches as the blood drains from her face and her eyes blow wide, her mouth moving silently as she stares at the items. She is gripping the edge of the table with crushing force, her knuckles blanched white.

"Is that…" she croaks.

"A letter from Keeper Istimaethoriel of Clan Lavellan, I believe," Leliana informs her. "It arrived late last night. The package was with it, so I assume both are for you."

"Let me have it," she demands, reaching across the table. Her fingers tremble in anticipation. " _Please_ , Leliana, I… if you would be so kind."

The Herald is fighting to regain some control of her haywire emotions as Leliana hands the letter across the table. Lady Lavellan clutches both objects tightly in her hands, murmuring words that tumble effortlessly out of her mouth in her own unfamiliar language. But instead of ripping open the letter like Cullen had assumed she would, she pockets the envelope and focuses solely on the small leaf-wrapped package.

Hesitantly, she holds the package up to her ears and gently shakes it—a small rattling noise echoes through the chamber.

Her expression falters at the sound, crumpling into something completely unrecognizable. She is _broken_. Defeated. She suddenly looks exhausted beyond all measure, her eyes shadowed and her shoulders slump, curving inward protectively. The way her hands tremble does not escape his notice. Cullen immediately feels his heart squeeze painfully in his chest at the sight.

She holds the package in her upturned hand, staring at it with glassy, unfamiliar eyes. " _Enlea,"_ she whispers.

He feels the heat before he sees the flames overtake her palm, engulfing the package instantly. The magic pulls at Cullen's senses and makes him wince as a headache begins to build behind his eyes, but he forces himself to watch—it's just a small spell, completely harmless, this is not Kinloch _this is not Kinloch_. Cassandra gives him a warning look from the other side of the table, but he waves her off. He can manage.

The leaves that encase the package begin to curl, smolder, and turn to ash in the Herald's palm, gradually revealing a small lump of… _something_ that shines like steel in the torchlight. She extinguishes the flames as quickly as she conjured them; the room suddenly feels much darker than before. The silence that follows is deafening.

The item fits perfectly in the palm of her shaking hand. It appears to be made of some kind of bluish-silver metal that has been painstakingly polished smooth by a craftsman of great skill; it reminds him of a river stone, shaped and refined by years of rushing water. Cullen glimpses a small inscription on one side of the object— _Aerin'ahl._

She closes her fingers around the stone as a single tear slips down her cheek; she swipes it away and drops her gaze to the table, cheeks colored with shame. "I am sorry," she murmurs, her voice hollow. "I should not have… I mean, it's—"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Josephine assures her, smiling warmly.

Leliana nods. "Indeed. It is perfectly normal for you to be homesick." She glances at the object in the Herald's hands. "Forgive my curiosity, but that is ironbark, yes?"

Cullen hears the hesitation in the Herald's voice. "Yes," she finally replies, her voice stiff. "Yes, it is."

"Warden Mahariel use to treasure her ironbark bow more than anything in the world," Leliana muses. "A very rare material, from what I understand. I must admit, I am surprised to see it used for something besides weapons and armor. May I ask what it is, exactly?"

She frowns and glances around warily. "Why?"

"It is my job, Your Worship."

Instantly, the Herald's face shutters, becoming void of all emotion. "Your job," she repeats coldly.

Trepidation grows in Cullen's stomach—Maker, Lady Lavellan looks like a cornered animal. He wants to tell Leliana to stop, to leave the Herald alone, but the spymaster smiles saccharinely and adds, "Secrets are my business, my lady. Mahariel was always forthcoming about the Dalish way of life whenever I asked, but she never mentioned anything about ironbark trinkets like that one. I am curious as to its purpose."

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, the pressure in the room dips sharply and swells—the Herald stiffens and the torches burn a little brighter, a little warmer as her magic fills each corner of the war room. Sparks sputter and float languidly to the floorboards from her red-hot fingertips. The faint traces of lyrium in his blood surge in response to her seemingly-endless mana reserves, and pressure begins to build behind his eyes, his heart pounding erratically. The room is too small, they're not safe, _he needs to_ do _something._

Cullen feels his grip on his sword tighten—but a firm look from Cassandra roots him to the spot. He reminds himself to breathe. The Herald is not a blood mage. He is not in danger.

 _NotKinlochnotKinlochnotKinloch_

On the other side of the table, Lady Lavellan grimaces and slips the polished ironbark into the recesses of her robes and out of sight before she starts to massage her hands. They are glowing from the inside outward, highlighting the delicate bones in her palms and fingers as if molten metal courses through her veins instead of blood. She presses her thumbs into the palm of her hand and kneads until they stop glowing and the magic in the room dissipates.

"Forgive me," she murmurs, biting the inside of her cheek. She has regained a fraction of her composure and holds her shoulders back with dignity, but her eyes are still haunted and strangely glassy as she looks between them all. "This is—" A bitter laugh, sharp and abrupt, escapes her lips. "I am not handling this half as well as I would like. Losing control like that was… uncalled for. I'm sorry."

Leliana clears her throat. "I did not mean to upset—"

The Herald holds up a hand and cuts the spymaster off, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Enough," she says sharply. "As far as I am concerned, Sister Nightingale, you know too many of my secrets already. Allow me to keep this one to myself—I think I deserve that much."

The spymaster's face is impassive, but Cullen does not miss the way she drops her gaze to the floor in shame, lips pursed. She clasps her hands behind her back. "Of course."

Several moments of silence pass, filled only by the crackling sound of the torches that line the walls and the rush of blood in Cullen's ears. Cassandra is glancing concernedly between Leliana and the Herald, brow furrowed in confusion and irritation; Josephine shifts her weight from foot to foot and pretends to read something on her portable desk, but her gaze flits apprehensively to the Herald every few seconds. Cullen winces and rubs his neck in an attempt to work out the knotted muscles before his inevitable headache kicks in. He needs to get back to his tent and use some of Lady Lavellan's taproot—preferably sooner rather than later.

Lady Lavellan rubs a hand over her face and sighs wearily. "I must go. If anyone has need of me, I will be in my cabin."

And with that, she turns on her heel and opens the door abruptly with a wave of her hand, the hem of her dark red cloak brushing the floor behind her as she stalks out of the room. No one says a word until they can no longer hear her soft footsteps echoing throughout the chantry. The front doors slam with a note of finality, and they all flinch.

Cassandra slowly turns back to the table and crosses her arms over her breastplate, shooting them all pointed looks. "Well… _that_ went well, now didn't it?"

* * *

 **Next chapter's half done, and it's just between Cullen and Lavellan. Hooray!**


	4. Small Presence, Thousand-guised

**This chapter was a monster to write. So much information. So much dialogue. It just kinda happened. Enjoy all 10,000 words of it!**

* * *

She doesn't speak to him for six days.

Objectively, he knows her silence should not unnerve him so much, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't bothered by this development in their tenuous friendship. Each time she leaves Haven for a trip to the Hinterlands or the Storm Coast, Cullen has subsequently had to endure weeks without the pleasure of her company. So, in the grand scheme of things, six days should really not be that big of a deal.

It is, though. It is a _very_ big deal.

Propriety be damned, he _misses_ her. Now bereft of her agreeable conversation and soft smiles, Cullen feels as though he has forgotten one of his shoes, or only put on half his armor—he is off-balance, wobbling precariously in his uncertainty as he dazedly fulfils his duties around Haven.

He has grown far too accustomed to her face in recent weeks: the constellations of freckles on her tanned cheeks, the way the corners of her mouth twitch in amusement every time he stumbles over his words, the sweet softness of her voice as she asks him question after question. He has memorized the way the sunrise reflects like fire off her flaxen hair when she steps outside the main gates of Haven, drinking in the frozen vista laid before her with a wistful smile on her face that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

She is exotic, warm, bewitching—and _utterly_ forbidden.

The Herald of Andraste. A Dalish elf. Mage. He could list a thousand different reasons why he should never allow himself to think about her, and yet he cannot help the searing heat that pools in his stomach every time he sees her bite her lip in concentration when she spars with Solas, or when her mouth quirks in a wry half-smile across the war table.

Shame gnaws at him, insidious and sickening; he knows it is improper to feel this way about her—Maker, he doesn't even know _how_ he feels, but he knows it's inappropriate and wrong and _he should not be thinking about her like this._

After the third day of aching silence, Cullen decides that she is probably mad at him for the shoes. Or perhaps she's upset with him over his advocacy for the templars. Maybe it's a mixture of both. He doesn't know. What he _does_ know, however, is that the boots have mysteriously disappeared from her doorstep—perhaps she incinerated them, maybe she gave them away. Regardless, she still chooses to trudge through Haven's snowbanks with little more than leather straps tied around the arches of her feet. It's baffling.

Deep down, he knows he should apologize for the gift. It would be the smart, mature thing to do.

Unfortunately, Cullen does not appear to be capable of making smart, mature decisions lately.

The knowledge that Lady Lavellan is within walking distance of Cullen's tent at any given time sits at the forefront of his mind. It should be concerning, he thinks, how keenly aware of her he has become over the last several weeks—maybe the lyrium is finally starting to affect his mind the way Cassandra said it would, blurring the directions of his moral compass. (He knows that's not the reason, but he does not dare to admit why he thinks of the Herald so often, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. A slippery slope, indeed.)

Cullen groans and rolls onto his back, wincing as the stabbing pain behind his eyes worsens. He tries to focus on the flickering candlelight-borne shadows that play across the ceiling of his tent, but they swim in and out of focus, making his stomach roil like a ship at sea. He throws an arm over his eyes and grits his teeth to keep from emptying his stomach contents all over the floor of his tent—again.

Feeling momentarily brave, he cracks an eyelid and looks at the singular piece of taproot that rests on his desk nearby. He knows should save it for something more severe than this minor episode; the Herald will not be returning to the Storm Coast for another month at least, and he does not think the soldiers stationed there will know what taproot looks like to gather more, as it is a Dalish remedy. Maker knows he could never ask her for more, especially now that she isn't speaking to him.

He _could_ go to Adan's for something to help him sleep through the night, if only for a little bit. It might be his only option at this point. The grumpy apothecary is usually awake at this hour, and he has helped Cullen before; he hadn't even asked any questions—just gave him the elfroot infusion and sent him out the door with an indecipherable grunt. The infusion hadn't been nearly as effective as the Herald's taproot, but it had sufficed for a short while.

Cullen slowly eases himself into a sitting position, pausing whenever the nausea becomes too much to bear. He eyes his leftmost desk drawer—the lyrium within tugs at the edges of his senses. It calls out with whispered promises of peaceful sleep, of a night free of fear and demons and _blood, so much blood_. Perhaps if he had just a small taste, he would be brave enough to apologize to her for the shoes. Just onedraught…

With great difficulty, Cullen shakily gets to his feet and reaches for his cloak, pointedly keeping his eyes glued to the ground and away from his desk. He wants— _needs_ —to get away from the song; he can feel the shackles tightening with every second he spends in its presence. Vision swimming, he drapes his cloak over his shoulders and stumbles out of his tent into the cold night air.

The training grounds are completely empty and covered in a fresh dusting of snow that has yet to be marred by footsteps, and the moons reflect off the frozen lake, bathing the rows of tents and snowy treetops in a faint silver-blue glow. The only noise comes from the guards that stand near the gates of Haven and line the walls, patrolling as he has instructed them; the smithy down the road is dark and does not sing its familiar song of steel against steel. Instantly, Cullen feels the fire lessen in his veins and he breathes a little easier in the fresh air.

Cullen thanks the Maker it is dark enough for him to walk through the gates without his haggard appearance arousing suspicion. Several soldiers salute and murmur greetings as he passes, but he waves them off, keeping his face lowered, shadowed in the torchlight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the Herald's cabin; the windows are dark, as he expected. He is not aware of the precise time, but he knows that it is either extremely late or extremely early. He allows himself a moment of rebelliousness to wonder what she dreams about each night. Does she have endless nightmares of the horrors she's seen, like Cullen? Or does she dream of more peaceful times—years spent with her clan, training her magic amongst the trees without fear, living happily with her family? For her sake, he hopes for the latter.

He continues up the stairs and past the tavern, thoughts still lingering on the Herald, but as he approaches the apothecary, he lets out a shaky sigh of relief. The windows glow orange with candlelight from the inside—Adan is awake, thank the Maker. Hopefully he will give Cullen something to ease his pain; at this point, he would treasure a few hours of dreamless sleep more than all the gold in Thedas. He knocks twice before pushing the door open and stepping inside, already planning out an excuse to give the cantankerous alchemist.

"Adan, it's—"

The greeting he had planned dies in his mouth the second he sees the familiar flash of the Herald's silver hair on the opposite side of the room, and blind panic instantly threatens to choke him where he stands.

She is bent over one of the tables against the far wall, her back to him as she works a mortar and pestle with steady, assured movements, humming a sweet tune he does not recognize. For a moment, Cullen thinks she has not noticed his entrance—but he has never been a lucky man, so his hopes are unsurprisingly dashed to pieces when she glances over her shoulder in his direction.

"Commander," she greets, her soft accent tickling his ears.

She sets the mortar and pestle down on the table and turns to face him, wiping her hands on the stained apron around her waist. Her hair is pinned up loosely instead of braided, but a few stray tresses have escaped their confines to frame her face. She tucks them behind her ear.

"I certainly didn't expect to see you up and about at this time of night." She smiles sadly. "If you're looking for Adan, I'm afraid you just missed him."

"I wasn't," he blurts out. He backtracks, trying to organize his words. "I _was_ — I mean, this isn't… Ah, forgive me. I did not mean to disturb your work. I will take my leave."

Her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. "So soon? I was not aware my presence was so repulsive."

He flushes bright red, and horror brings back his nausea with a vengeance. "No!" he stammers, taking half a step forward into the room. "I did not mean—"

"That was a joke," she assures him, smiling wryly. "Or an attempt at one, at the very least. Varric was apparently not lying when he said my timing needed some work."

"Oh." Cullen clears his throat and stares at the floor, letting out a strained laugh that sounds more like the gasp of a dying man. "I am sorry for misunderstanding."

"No need to apologize," she says, waving him off. She takes a step closer and peers up at him, emerald eyes glittering brightly, but her smile abruptly disappears when she sees his gaunt cheeks and pale face. "Commander, you are unwell."

It is not a question. Her expression holds nothing except concern; Cullen sees no resentment, no hint of a grudge of any kind in the depths of her gaze. He swallows thickly and winces when his headache sharpens in response to her proximity—her mana reserves are deep, almost endless, Maker help him—and the glaringly bright torchlight certainly does not help matters.

Still, he does not want her to see him like this. "I am quite all right, Lady Lavellan."

"You're not," she says flatly, not buying it for a second.

"Truly, I am—"

She slips her hand around his wrist before he can argue further, delicate fingers tightening in a vice-like grip that surprises him with its strength, and she pulls him toward a chair in between the two potion-crafting tables against the far wall. The room swims at the sudden change of elevation as he sinks into the chair, and he squeezes his eyes shut to keep from falling to the floor in a heap of trembling limbs.

The sudden press of her fingers beneath his chin, pleasantly hot like a sun-warmed stone; he flinches, but does not pull away. She turns his face this way and that, assessing him. "Creators, you look _awful_."

"You wound me, my lady."

"You wound yourself plenty without any help from me, Commander. I'm guessing a headache is not your only symptom," she murmurs, ignoring the glib comment. He can hear the frown in her voice. "Nausea? Dizziness?"

He nods once and leans his head back against the wall, clenching his jaw to quell the crushing wave of vertigo that threatens to drown him. He hears her soft footsteps shuffling against the floorboards of the room somewhere off to his left. "A moment, please," she tells him. "This may help."

The glow behind his eyelids gradually dims as she smothers the torches in the room; at the same time, the stabbing pain in his head begins to abate. Cullen cracks one eyelid open and watches her as she moves about, extinguishing torches with a wave of her hand.

She is wearing a sleeveless tunic of elven design and dark trousers that do not stop at her ankle, but rather continue downward to wrap around the arches of her foot, similar to the leather straps she usually wears. She occasionally reaches up to tuck a lock of silver hair behind her pointed ears, and Cullen's eyes follow the movement closely.

"There." She turns once the last torch has been snuffed, leaving three small candles flickering on the table closest to him. It gives them enough light to see, but not so much that it pains him. "Is that better?"

Cullen nods tightly. Wordlessly, she pads over to him and kneels in front of his chair to get a better look at him, studying his face with worry etched into her expression.

Her voice is soft. "May I check your temperature?"

Cullen swallows thickly, considering it. His instincts scream at him— _no, no, no, she's a mage don't let her get that close—_ but a larger part of him is too ill to care. He nods tightly in assent and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall to keep from flinching away involuntarily.

The Herald's touch is soft and warm against his forehead, and her hand rasps against his stubble as she presses her other palm to his cheek, flipping over briefly to touch him with the backs of her fingers. He exhales serenely, savoring the heat that emanates from her copper skin for a moment—Maker, she is her own personal heat source, and it is _wonderful_ —but she pulls her hand away before he can get too comfortable.

"No fever," she murmurs, clearly perplexed. She leans back on the balls of her feet and braces her elbows on her knees, balancing delicately before him. "As Varric says, I am going to 'go out on a limb' and assume you are out of taproot, yes?"

Again, he nods. She hums, and he can hear the grim undertones in her voice when she sighs, "Well, that just won't do, now will it?"

"I can endure without taproot," he insists. "I am capable of managing my symptoms well enough."

"Nonsense," she says, waving him off. "I will write to my clan in the morning and see if they can spare a few bushels, which I'm certain they can. The stuff grows like weeds in the valleys near Wycome."

"Don't," he croaks, stopping her. She raises an eyebrow curiously at his protest. Cullen forces himself to focus on her face and manages to sit up the slightest bit—he waits for the nausea to pass before finishing, "You have more pressing concerns, my lady. Please, do not let me add to your burdens any more than I already have."

"One letter won't take too much time out of my day, I assure you," she remarks wryly, a small smile curving her lips.

"But—"

"But _nothing_ ," she interrupts firmly. "Creators above, you're more of a martyr than Theriel ever was. I'm going to write the letter tomorrow and that's all there is to it, all right?" Cullen opens his mouth to argue, but she holds up a hand to cut him off and gives him a pleading look. "At least let me give you something to ease your symptoms before you leave here. An infusion of prophet's laurel, or maybe some vandal aria tea?"

Cullen exhales sharply and rubs the back of his neck, looking down at her in disbelief. Isn't she supposed to be mad at him? She is acting like the six days of silence didn't even happen. He wonders if perhaps this entire exchange is a dream—an excruciatingly painful, wonderful dream. He half expects the walls of Adan's apothecary to shift at any moment and melt into the curving stone hallways of Kinloch Hold, or the towering spire of Kirkwall's chantry.

But he knows this is real. There are too many details, no fuzzy edges. The tantalizing warmth that emanates from her body is real. The stabbing pain behind his eyes is real, pricking like icicles and sharper than steel arrowheads. The way she had touched him when she checked his temperature—softly, almost reverently, like she didn't want to move too quickly and frighten him—was real.

To the Void with propriety—he _wants_ to stay here. With her, the Dalish apostate who could turn him to ash in half a second. It might be selfish to crave her time as he does, but Cullen is a selfish man.

"I… yes," he replies hoarsely. "Yes, I would like that. Thank you."

The Herald's lips twitch in amusement at his stiff answer and she gratefully inclines her head. "I am glad. I really wasn't looking forward to tying you to that chair and spoon-feeding you a healing potion; you seem like the type to fight back."

Cullen chuckles airily through his nose and leans back in his chair, massaging his temples. "You would be correct, my lady. Is that what you had to do for your brother?"

"Oh, yes," she replies heartily, stepping over to the potions table at his elbow. She begins uncorking several small bottles with a wistful smile on her face. "He and Rhaenar would argue for _hours_ whenever he refused to drink his tonics. Said they tasted bad and gave him stomach cramps or something, but we never believed him. Once, we even tied him to a tree to get him to calm down and take them—there were some nights I thought the shouting would never end. Theriel is far too stubborn for his own good, I'm afraid."

She pauses, and glances at him with a smirk, looking him up and down purposely. "You are quite similar to Theriel in that regard, Commander. Should you ever be so unfortunate as to cross paths with my brother, I have a feeling the two of you would get along splendidly."

"Really?"

"Of course," she says, turning back to her work. "I think you would be fast friends—after he tries to kill you at least once, of course. He holds little love for humans. Rhaenar is a little more progressive, thankfully."

"Is Rhaenar your—"

Cullen stops short, the words sticking in his throat as sharp as a knife as he realizes what he's done; he has slipped a toe over the invisible line between them, testing, prodding. Sweet Maker, he should _know_ better. He looks up at her, apology ready to spill forth, but the words die in his throat when he meets her piercing gaze.

The amusement has faded from her eyes and she is watching him carefully, eyes glimmering in the faint candlelight with an emotion he cannot place. He watches as a lock of silver hair falls free of its confines, softly brushing one of her elegant cheekbones on the way down; the urge to tuck it behind her ear comes sharp and fast, but his arms feel strangely numb all of a sudden and he cannot move.

"It is all right," she murmurs, and inclines her head. "You may finish your question, Commander. I believe I owe you that much."

Her gaze is warm and unguarded as she studies his face, but Cullen feels like he doesn't deserve such an expression, not after this past week. "You don't owe me anything."

She snorts softly. "You have been very patient with my questions these past few weeks—probably more patient than anyone else in Haven. It is only fair that I give you the same treatment, yes?" She reaches for a jar of dried herbs and peers down at the label with a furrowed brow. "Do you recall what I said to you the first time we spoke?"

He winces at the foul memory. "You said it in your language, but I… caught the gist of it."

Her ears twitch and her cheeks redden; she looks mortified. "Creators, I'd forgotten about that," she mutters. She waves him off. "Forgive me. First impressions have never been my strong suit. No, I meant the day I gave you the taproot, when we were out by the training grounds. Remember?"

He exhales in relief, and he nods. "Of course. How could I forget?"

She laughs softly, uncorking the bottle of herbs, and she fishes out a few pale green leaves of vandal aria, which she then drops into her mortar. "Then you remember that I promised you a little bit of transparency after I heard from my clan. Now that I have finally received word from Keeper Istimaethoriel, I intend to keep my promise to you. It's the least I can do, seeing as you have subjected yourself to my questions for quite some time now."

He frowns. "You make it sound as if I don't enjoy our morning talks."

"I can't imagine it is fun to be cross-examined every morning, regardless of who is doing the examining," she says wryly. Her hands still and she rolls the stone pestle between her fingers, suddenly looking very unsure of herself. Her gaze flicks up to his hesitantly. " _Do_ you enjoy our conversations?"

"Of course," he says. He wants to tell her they were the best part of his day, but he refrains. "The troops appreciate your presence more than you realize, my lady. You bring out the best in them. I hardly ever have to correct them when you're around."

Her face sours, and she looks especially unimpressed. "I… see. You are too kind, ser," she says flatly.

Cullen's eyes go wide. "No!" he sputters. "That's not what I— I mean, you _do_ improve morale, but that's not the only reason I enjoy speaking with you." He rakes a hand through his hair and winces as his headache surges painfully. "Your questions take my mind off… things."

"Things," she repeats, mashing more leaves into her mortar.

"It's nice to speak of something other than the Inquisition," he clarifies. "It seems I speak of little else these days. Your questions have always been a welcome distraction, Lady Lavellan, and I-I enjoy your company." The last part is little more than an embarrassed murmur, but she hears it nonetheless.

The Herald's lips twitch as she fights off a smile. "Thank you. I enjoy your company as well." She scrapes out the mashed contents of her mortar into a small jar, corks it, and sets it aside. She begins to add more leaves to her mortar, eyes glued to her work. "Still, a promise is a promise. Ask me what you will, Commander. I may not answer everything, but I will do my best to be as honest with you as you have been with me."

Cullen stares at her, speechless. Surely she cannot be offering this to him so blithely. After all his mistakes, all he has done to upset her, she would set everything aside for the sake of upholding a bargain he didn't even know they had made? A million questions flood his mind all at once, warring viciously with one another for the privilege of being spoken aloud.

"Either you are too surprised to speak or you are suffering an aneurism," she says amusedly, flashing him a small smile. "I certainly hope it's not the latter."

"I think I have too many questions," he admits, massaging the knotted muscles in his neck. "It's hard to find a good starting point."

"Start with something simple," she suggests. "My favorite color, perhaps, or a list of my hobbies. You will need to ease me into this, Commander—I'm afraid I am not very good at sharing my personal life with others."

Aerin'ahl wipes her hands on her apron and reaches for a small cup; she drops a few pinches of leaves into the bottom and pours a vial of clean water over them, swirling the contents until she is satisfied. Then, with a soft whisper of a spell, her fingers begin to glow like embers against the outside of the cup.

The spell dies as quickly as it starts, and she holds the cup out to him, steam curling into the air from the dark liquid within. "Drink this," she says. "It will dull the pain. Perhaps it will also help clear your head."

Cullen gingerly takes the cup with a murmured thanks. He sips at it—the metallic taste hits the back of his tongue like a razor blade, but softer, more subtle floral notes make it almost bearable. Much better than the taproot, in any case. It takes a moment, but the throbbing in his head drops off sharply, and the room begins to settle into focus. The relief is so wonderful that he almost slips out of his chair. "Maker's breath," he exhales, relishing the feeling.

The Herald watches him out of the corner of her eye as she walks to the other side of the room, flipping through pages in a small, tattered, leather-bound journal she'd produced from a pocket in her apron. "Better?"

"Much better, yes. Thank you."

"You are very welcome," she says, and turns toward a shelf near the door lined with neatly-labeled jars of all shapes and sizes. "Oh! I know where you can start—before we got sidetracked, I believe you were inquiring after Rhaenar, yes? I could tell you about him, if you'd like."

He nods, then realizes embarrassedly that she can't see him with her back turned. "Yes, of course. Is he a friend from your clan?"

"Actually, Rhaenar is one of my brothers," she answers, rising to her tiptoes to closely examine one of the labels on a large, oddly-shaped jar. She looks back and forth between her journal and the shelf, frowning. "It's just the three of us now," she continues distractedly. "Theriel is oldest, Rhaenar is the middle child, and I am the youngest. We are very close."

"You must miss them."

"More than anything," she admits. "We have had to look out for each other for quite a long time, now. That letter from my Keeper had a short message from my brothers attached to it, thankfully. Theriel is furious that I am with a human organization so far away from home. He has always tried to protect me, even if it does get annoying sometimes. Rhaenar is more upset about being left alone with Theriel—they fight like cats and dogs, I swear." She pauses, thinking. "I do hope they have not killed each other in my absence."

"They sound like my siblings. I used to have to mediate their arguments all the time," he tells her, smiling at the memory. He takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair, getting more comfortable as he sips at his tea. "Tell me about them—your brothers, I mean. What are they like?"

Aerin'ahl chuckles, pulling a few jars off the shelf to set them aside. She wipes a few of them on her apron. "Well, you already know a bit about Theriel; he has _always_ been a handful. He's stubborn and has far too many opinions, but he is also very passionate about what he believes in. He is a dead shot with a bow—his aim is even better than Sera's, but you had better not tell her I said that. She'd probably put bees in my pillow.

"Rhaenar is much quieter than Theriel, and _much_ more polite. He enjoys learning from the humans whenever we trade with them, but I think he mainly does it to make Theriel angry. He's apprenticed to the clan's alchemist, last I saw. Oh, and he has the loveliest singing voice!"

Cullen drains the rest of his tea and sets the cup aside, leaning forward to brace his elbows against his knees. He steeples his fingers, asking solemnly, "You have no other family?"

She shrugs. "Theriel is bonded to the _hahren'_ s youngestapprentice. Her name is Arilya, and they have a son named Cammet, who should be coming up on his third name day quite soon. Rhaenar is bonded to the Halla Keeper's oldest son." She pauses, and frowns. " _Fenedhis,_ I cannot recall his name at the moment. They were joined so recently, I never had the chance to spend very much time with the boy."

"And your parents?" he asks, prodding gently.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before shaking her head. "My father was led into the Beyond before I was born. My mother joined him several years ago."

"I'm sorry," he says, and means it. Cullen knows that kind of loss all too well.

She looks at him over her shoulder and gives him a sad smile. "Thank you, Cullen. She passed shortly after Theriel's bonding ceremony, but she never had the opportunity to see Rhaenar take that step. I miss her very much." She turns back to the shelf to peruse more ingredients, sighing. "My apologies. Don't let my sadness deter you from your questioning. Please, continue—I am finding this to be more therapeutic than I anticipated."

"You mentioned bonding," he says, steering the subject toward a happier topic. "Is that anything like marriage?"

"I believe it's essentially the same thing," she replies. She pulls a jar from one of the shelves and squints at the label, looking back and forth between it and her journal. "We Dalish bond for love, though. I think most people in Ferelden and Orlais bon—sorry, _marry_ for things like political advantage and wealth, but our clans do not have caste systems like that. We bond because we _want_ to bond with a person; their political position does not enter into it. You simply find a person you wouldn't mind sharing the rest of your life with, bond with them after your eighteenth name day, and have children before you die."

"Eighteen is rather young," he murmurs, giving her a brief once-over—she cannot be any younger than twenty-five, maybe twenty-three at the very youngest, and even that is a stretch. A cold feeling settles in his chest as he realizes the implication. "Are you—"

"No," she says quietly. "No, I am not."

"May I ask why?"

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and glances over her shoulder at him briefly, sorrow reflected in the jade depths of her eyes. " _Ir abelas._ Please, Cullen, I— I would rather not speak of him. Might we change the subject?"

 _Him._

Oh, Maker, how could he be so foolish? Of course there would be someone in the Herald's life—or there had been at one point, anyway. Cullen feels his cheeks flush with shame as he thinks of all the inappropriate thoughts he's had of the Herald since they started conversing regularly by the training grounds, and suddenly he feels like he does not deserve to be in the same room with her, much less ask her personal questions.

"Forgive me," he says in a rush, rubbing the back of his neck. "I should not have… I did not mean to pry."

She smiles, but he can see the strain around her eyes. "It is all right. You could not have known. Perhaps I will tell you of Tannyll someday, but this evening hardly feels like the time for such a conversation." She turns back to the shelf and gestures toward him over her shoulder. "Please, feel free to continue."

He racks his brain for another question to take her mind off things. "Y-you've mentioned that you are First of your clan—what does that mean, exactly?"

The tension in the room instantly dissolves, and her shoulders fall in relief. She continues to search the shelf for ingredients as she answers, "Basically, it means that I am next in line to be Keeper of Clan Lavellan. When Keeper Istimaethoriel steps down or—Creators forbid—she dies, I will take her place. I have spent my life learning all I can about the People, our history, and our customs so that we do not lose what we are to the passage of time. I hold all of this knowledge for the entire clan."

"Is magic a requirement for your position?"

"Yes," she answers, plucking a few smaller jars off the shelf and setting them aside. Her finger trails lightly over the labels as she studies the words, scanning for the necessary ingredients. "We use our magic to protect the clan and to move through the forest swiftly in case we are being hunted or feel threatened. From the day my magic manifested itself, I have been trained to use my powers to protect my people, as well as to prevent possession in myself and any Firsts and Seconds that will follow me someday."

He feels unease creep up his spine at her words. Cullen hates himself for it, but he cannot help the question that escapes his lips. "How exactly do you safeguard against possession? There must be some kind of system involved."

"Ah. I knew you would ask that," she answers, grimacing. She turns from the shelf and leans back against it, holding her journal to her chest as she watches him intently. "From what I understand, we do something similar to the Harrowings performed in your Circles, but ours are safer. I'm not allowed to tell you much more than that, I'm afraid—you know, Dalish secrets and all that," she tells him, smiling tightly, but lightness in her voice fades away. "Trust me when I say that our methods are quite effective, Commander. I am no blood mage, nor am I an abomination. You needn't fear me."

"I do," he blurts out. The Herald's eyebrows furrow and she opens her mouth, but Cullen backpedals. "Trust you, that is. I am aware of your level of control. I only asked out of curiosity, my lady, not out of suspicion."

The Herald nods, seemingly satisfied with his answer. "Oh, good. Many people in Haven already fear me, and I would hate for you to be one of them. I have worked hard to master my element, and I abhor blood mages almost as much as—"

"As templars?" Cullen ventures quietly, dropping his gaze to the floor.

The Herald's lips purse and she shifts her weight, fingers creeping up to toy with the loose ends of her silver hair. "It's… not that simple," she replies slowly, her words carving deeper into his chest with every syllable. She exhales deeply. "Forgive me, Commander. My opinion of the Order has no bearing on my training as First."

Cullen nods and runs a hand over his face, sighing heavily. "No, it's… fine," he says quietly, wishing to move on from this topic. He racks his brain for a swift and merciful subject changing-question. "Can you— I mean, is there anything else you can tell me about your training?"

She gives him a strange look, one eyebrow raised. "Surely you know how mages train, Commander. Of all people."

"Circle mages, yes, but I know very little about Dalish practices. You are a pyromancer?"

"How did you guess?" she asks teasingly, wiggling her fingers. Sparks sputter harmlessly and float to the floorboards; a few land on the exposed part of her foot, but she doesn't flinch or recoil, almost like she doesn't feel them at all.

She turns back to the shelf to continue her search for ingredients, flipping open her journal once again. "I mainly use fire, yes, but I'm also trained in spirit magic. Ice never came naturally to me, unfortunately."

Cullen leans forward in his chair, lacing his fingers together. "Any particular reason why?"

"Keeper Deshanna says it's because my 'rage burns brighter than the sun', but she is rather melodramatic. I like to think it's because the Creators have a strange sense of humor," she muses, fingers trailing lightly along the bottom edge of one of the shelves.

Cullen's brows furrow in confusion. "I've never seen you angry."

"And I hope you never do," she laughs, glancing sidelong at him. "The results are usually not very pretty. A great many aravels were lost to my temper after Falon'Din led my mother to the Beyond." She plucks a dusty jar of prophet's laurel off the shelf and sets it aside, shrugging.

"The people of my clan call me _isenatha'lin—_ the blood of the dragon. Supposedly it flows through my veins and keeps me resistant to most forms of heat, but I have burned myself more than enough in the past to prove that theory wrong, believe me. I cannot say I mind the title, though. It is certainly not the worst nickname they could have given me."

"It suits you," he agrees, the scarred side of his mouth lifting in a smile.

"As much as 'commander' suits you, I daresay," she chuckles. She pops up to her tiptoes as she struggles to grasp a large opaque jar of herbs on the highest shelf. Her fingers strain uselessly for purchase against the smooth sides of the vessel, and she huffs in annoyance.

He rises to help her—really, it's the least he can do after she was kind enough to rid him of his headache. Cullen unclasps his cloak and drapes it across the back of the chair, rolling his shoulders to loosen the stiff muscles in his neck as he steps toward her.

"Allow me," he offers, coming up behind Aerin'ahl. She drops down from her tiptoes as he reaches over her head, easily grabbing the dusty jar of herbs with his now-steady hands.

She turns and takes it from his outstretched hand, careful not to accidentally brush his fingers. "I could've gotten it," she mumbles embarrassedly, and she looks up at him shyly through her lashes. A corner of her mouth quirks up. " _Sal'lle caela ma serannas."_

He inhales deeply at the sound of her native tongue and immediately regrets it, his heart seizing when he realizes how _close_ she is. His tongue suddenly feels much too large for his mouth.

"What— what does that mean?"

Her eyes widen and she blinks, color rushing to her face—it's exactly like the time she'd called after him in Elvhen that first day near the training grounds, almost like she hadn't realized she'd slipped back into her own language. But after several moments, the tension eases out of her shoulders and she clears her throat purposefully, eyebrows drawing together in determination.

"It means 'I ought to thank you,'" she answers quietly, almost like she is afraid someone will hear. Her nose wrinkles a second later, and she shakes her head. "But that is a very rough translation—Solas is much better suited to play interpreter than I."

He merely hums in response, not at all willing to admit that he would much rather listen to her voice rather than Solas'. This close, Cullen can just barely make out the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose—Maker help him, she smells like pressed elderflowers and he _hates_ himself for noticing such a thing.

Clearing his throat, he swallows thickly and making a conscious effort not to look at her lips, which are closer than they've ever been before. "Would— I mean, can you teach me how to say you're welcome?"

The fine lines around her eyes suddenly deepen, but not with mirth. Indigo shadows bleed into the lines of her blood writing and fingers tighten imperceptibly around the jar in her hands. "Why?"

Her tone is cool, guarded, and neutral—it reminds him more of the cold elves at the Circle than the pretty, free-spirited Dalish girl that tumbled out of the Fade. No, he knows that voice. It's the one she uses when speaking with Chancellor Roderick, or when Leliana asks the wrong questions about her clan, pushing, prodding too far.

She's never turned that voice on him before.

But he can't take the words back. She asked a question, and he must do his best to answer it.

"Forgive my impertinence, but… Maker, I can't imagine what it must be like to be surrounded by people who do not speak your language. It may not be much, but if I can alleviate any part of that particular burden, I would very much like to try."

She doesn't say anything right away. Her eyes glimmer with fascination as she studies his face, head tilted to one side; though she is silent, her thoughts are louder than chantry bells. He fights the urge to fidget under her scrutiny.

"It is kind of you to offer, Commander," she murmurs slowly, articulating each word carefully. Her thumb begins to rub inattentive circles against the side of the dusty jar she clutches with both hands. "I am not supposed to share the secrets of Elvhen with anyone other than my kinsmen, but… I suppose no one has to know. It is just us."

"If it's that important, you don't have to tell me."

"No, I want to," she insists, tucking a lock of hair behind her pointed ear. Her green eyes reflect jade in the moonlight that filters through the nearby window, and suddenly the oxygen in Cullen's lungs feels strangely inadequate.

She shuffles her feet nervously, and when she speaks, he almost does not hear her. " _Ma'ane ir vhalla."_

" _Ma'ane ir vhalla_ ," he repeats slowly.

He has barely finished the last word when the musical sound of her laughter echoes through the apothecary, sharp and sweet and completely unexpected. She presses her fingers against her lips to stifle a giggle, and Cullen's ears burn—not out of embarrassment, but shock. Her laugh is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

"I'm sorry," she manages, gasping for breath and smiling wider than he's ever seen before. "That was… very good."

He scoffs, trying to fight a smile and failing miserably. "There is no need to lie for my benefit, my lady. I can endure any criticisms you have."

"I am serious!" she objects, grinning. She sets the jar of herbs off to the side and crosses her arms, leaning a hip against the edge of the table. "For your first try, it really wasn't that bad."

"Define 'that bad.'"

"You got all the words right," she points out. "Of course, your accent would practically be considered a crime in most clans, but that can be fixed. Paint me impressed, Commander."

"Color."

The Herald stares up at him uncomprehendingly, lips slightly parted and eyebrows knit closely together. "I'm sorry, what?"

Cullen winces—were Mia here, she would box his ears for his brazenness—and shakes his head. "N-nothing. It's nothing. Forgive me, Lady Lavellan. I should not have interrupted you."

Cullen tries to step away, but she follows him, laying an herb-stained hand on his arm to keep him in place. "No, tell me," she insists, eyes wide with curiosity.

He hesitates, debating whether or not to tell her, but his resolve crumbles at the sight of her expectant face. He sighs and grimaces. "What you said a second ago. It's ' _color_ me impressed,' not paint."

He expects her to frown, to reprimand him, _something._ Anything other than what she actually does.

The Herald scowls, muttering several choice words under her breath—Cullen's stomach flips, wondering if he's gone and upset her _again_ —but she throws up her hands in exasperation before he can open his mouth to apologize for what feels like the fiftieth time.

"At this point, I think Varric is teaching me wrong on purpose. Why do I believe _anything_ he says? Color, color, color…" She mumbles the word over and over again as she pulls the journal out of her pocket and flips to a new page. She snatches up a stick of charcoal from the table and presses it to the page to write.

Aerin'ahl's hand freezes before she makes a single mark. She peers at him over the top of her journal, gaze uncertain. She bites her lip. "Would you… I mean, I need—" She lets out a frustrated huff and squeezes her eyes closed. "Oh, Mythal preserve me, this never gets any easier—may I ask you a favor, Commander?"

He lets out a relieved breath. "Of course. Anything."

Several moments pass as she studies him with an indecipherable expression—Cullen tries not to stare at the way her teeth pull at the fullness of her lower lip, but the longer she does it, the harder it is to look away. Finally, Aerin'ahl lifts her chin and clenches her jaw, meeting his gaze determinedly.

"I need you to spell it. Please."

The room goes deathly quiet; the only sound is that of their shared breathing and the roar of blood rushing in his ears. He feels numb, his thoughts tumbling over each other gracelessly as he tries to catch up with her words.

"I— what?" Cullen inquires, thinking he has clearly misheard her.

He hasn't. Aerin's shoulders slump and her cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red that stretches all the way to the tips of her ears at the disbelieving tone of his voice, and Cullen feels his stomach drop.

She gestures lamely in his direction, avoiding his gaze. "Color," she says quietly. "I… I do not know how it is spelled in the Trade tongue. You are educated and I consider you to be a friend, so I thought you would be willing to—"

She looks up at him warily, but her expression morphs into a scowl upon seeing the shock in his eyes. She snaps her journal closed. "You know what, forget I said anything. I will ask Solas in the morning."

She slips the journal in her pocket and grabs an armful of the jars she had set aside earlier, pushing past him to return to her workstation. Cullen's hand shoots out to grasp her elbow before he knows entirely what he is doing and stops Aerin'ahl in her tracks; the tinkling sound of glass fills the room as the jars in her arms knock against one another.

 _it makes sense it makes so much sense_

"Maker's breath," he exhales, staring at her incredulously. "You can't read, can you?"

She stares up at him, mouth set in a thin line, cheeks redder than apples. The mortification in her eyes is the only answer he needs. But before he can say anything more, Aerin clenches her jaw and sharply wrenches her elbow out of his grasp; in the same motion, a jar slips from her arms and falls to the floor, but Cullen feels a surge of magic fill the room and the vessel stops just shy of shattering on the floorboards.

With a flick of Aerin's finger, the jar whizzes through the air and sets down gently on the potions workbench; wordlessly, she walks over and sets the rest of the herbs down next to the jar, arranging them neatly in a line, labels facing outward—she takes her time so she has an excuse not to look at him.

Cullen says nothing, terrified of saying the wrong thing (as he has been known to do, especially around her). Finally, she sighs and braces her hands against the worn wooden tabletop. She hangs her head in defeat.

"I _can_ read, just not… well," she admits dejectedly. A soft sigh. "I manage well enough most of the time—names are easy to spot, and I can piece together simple sentences that don't have a lot of large words in them. Past that, however…" she trails, shaking her head. "No. I do not understand your language. We Dalish are known for our oral traditions. I grew up speaking Elvhen and I used Trade for the humans we met during our travels, but learning how to write the language never seemed important. Until now."

Cullen crosses the room with soft steps, trying to process her words and failing miserably. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" he asks gently.

"It's hard enough being the 'knife-eared' Herald of Andraste," she muses bitterly. The slur makes him flinch. "If word got out that I'm illiterate on top of all of that, the Inquisition would never be taken seriously."

She begins to uncork jars and bottles, pulling out stalks of dried herbs; her practiced fingers pluck the leaves off the stems and sort them into neat piles. "Varric gives me lessons when we travel, and Solas helps, too. Even Cassandra reads me poetry when she isn't destroying training dummies or punching something."

She looks over her shoulder at him, her eyes lined heavily with distress. "Are you angry with me?"

"Angry?" Cullen shakes his head and laughs breathlessly as he comes to stand at her shoulder, raking a hand through his hair in disbelief. "I could never be angry at you for something like this. I'm actually rather impressed. And relieved."

Her hands falter in their movements and her lips part in surprise. "Surely you jest, Commander."

"No, really," he swears. "Not many things escape my notice around Haven. Maker, it's almost embarrassing that I never picked up on it." A thought occurs to him, and he furrows his brow in confusion. "Do Leliana and Josephine know?"

"Yes. I told Josephine a few weeks ago when she asked me to draft a letter to some pompous noble, and I'm sure Leliana knows whether I want her to or not."

"Dare I ask how you've managed to write your reports these last few months?"

The Herald swallows hard and looks up at him sheepishly. "Solas writes them for me."

He laughs breathily and turns to lean back against the edge of the workbench, facing her; their arms brush every so often as she works. Her cheeks are still pink, he notices, and she is avoiding his gaze, but she does not move away from the close proximity. Aerin'ahl bites her lip nervously as she sprinkles different dried petals and leaves into a clean mortar. Her gaze flickers up to him periodically.

"I wanted to tell you," she admits softly. "I was just so worried you would be disappointed in me. Or angry. We've only just started to get along together, Commander. I… I didn't want to ruin everything."

"My temper may get the best of me sometimes, but I would never turn it on you for something like this," he tells her, rubbing his neck. "Of course, I wish you'd told me sooner. It would've cleared up a few things. I've been wondering why you didn't accept the shoes. I thought you were angry at me, so I thought it best not to approach you. Now I wish I had."

Her hands still instantly and her ears twitch. "I'm not sure what you mean. Are you talking about that meeting? I already apologized for my behavior—"

Cullen exhales, laughing wryly. "No, this was right before that. I left a pair of boots on your doorstep with a note. I was standing close by when you saw them. Maker, you looked so angry when you read it, I simply assumed I had managed to offend you again." He peers down at her exposed toes, confounded. "I don't know how you manage—"

"That was _you?"_ she cries, dropping a handful of leaves to the ground. Her hands shoot up to cover her mouth and she looks at him, eyes wide.

Cullen laughs self-deprecatingly. "I'm afraid so, my lady. Watching you walk around barefoot in the snow makes me shiver on your behalf. I don't know how you do it."

Her eyes glimmer with astonishment, and she slowly begins to shake her head back and forth. " _Ir abelas sathan ma nadas eolasa!"_ Her grin is as unexpected as it is blinding, and he forgets how to breathe for a moment. "Cullen, I had no idea. I meant to take the note to Varric so he could read it to me, but I lost it before I had the chance."

He blinks and clears his throat, tearing his gaze from her smile. "I, uh. Yes. Well," he stammers, and clears his throat, "I wanted to repay you for the taproot. I should have given them to you in person like I planned, though. I could have returned them and had them made into something else that you would have liked more."

Her hands fall from her face, and she cocks her head to one side, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "You speak as if I have thrown them away. The boots are in my cabin."

"You kept them? I didn't think—"

"Cullen," she says softly. Her eyes are shimmering with such fondness that his heart constricts painfully in his chest. "Of course I kept them. When I was with my clan, I did not grow up with very many material possessions. A staff, two sets of robes, my foot wrappings, and a puzzle box. That was all I had for the longest time." She pauses, takes his hand in her own, and squeezes gently. "Believe me when I say those boots are the most beautiful things I have ever owned in my entire life. I love them."

Each one of her soft fingertips feels hotter than fresh-forged steel against the back of his hand, and his heart hammers in his chest. He swallows hard, face flushed. "Y-you haven't worn them though."

She snorts and releases his hand—he misses her warmth immediately. "Don't be absurd. Of course I have," she says flippantly. "I wear them around my cabin at every opportunity."

Cullen stares. Surely she can't be serious—but one look at her face tells him otherwise. He lets out a noise of dismay.

"My lady, the entire purpose of commissioning the shoes was so you would start wearing them _outside_."

"And ruin them?" Her nose wrinkles and she shakes her head. "Creators, no. They are much too nice for that."

"Too nice," he echoes, staring at her in bewilderment.

She nods eagerly. "Of course! What if I got blood all over them or tore them during a fight? I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the blood of a rage demon runs at boiling temperature."

"I don't— That's not—" he stammers, trying to wrap his head around her words. "I cannot understand how you can possibly prefer walking barefoot through the snow to wearing proper shoes."

She turns back to her work, lips curved in a small half-smile as she begins to crush the leaves in her mortar with a small stone pestle. "No, I suppose you wouldn't," she muses. "I am aware the Canticle of Shartan has been stricken from your Chant of Light for quite some time, but surely you know a little bit about the Long Walk. Yes?"

"Of course. Andraste's sons gave the Dales to the elves for their efforts in the war, so they walked there together and founded Halamshiral."

"' _We walked with what little we had on our backs. Some walked without shoes, for they had none,'_ " she quotes, glancing at him pointedly. "That is from a scroll written by Keeper Gisharel Ralaferin. Many of the People go without shoes as a reminder of what we were promised, what we built—what was stolen from us."

"I… never thought of that." He swallows hard and lowers his gaze to the floor. "Forgive my ignorance on the subject. I'm afraid I know very little about the Dalish way of life."

The Herald reaches off to one side and grabs a small shiny container with a lid; their arms brush lightly, but she doesn't seem to notice half as much as Cullen does. She begins scooping the contents of the mortar into a small tin, dried leaves plinking musically against the bottom of the container.

"I would be surprised if you did," she chuckles, setting the now-empty mortar and pestle off to the side. "If everyone knew about us, we wouldn't need Keepers in the first place. We keep our secrets and keep them well, Commander Cullen, but we have our reasons for doing so. But I suppose some of those reasons are more logical than others."

"And what are yours?"

Her brow puckers. "What, _my_ reasons?"

Aerin'ahl puts the lid on the tin and sets it back on the counter before turning to face him, wiping her hands on her apron. She braces her hands on her hips. The Herald does not look taken aback by his question in the slightest, instead lifting her chin to meet his gaze head-on with a thoughtful look on her face.

"How unfair of you," she murmurs, though her tone is not unkind. She raises an eyebrow. "Tell me—if I asked you the same question, would you answer truthfully?"

He wants to say yes—it would be so easy to let the word tumble past his lips, to tell her about Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall and the lyrium—but he knows he cannot tell her the truth, nor is he capable of lying to her. Not now, not ever. So he does not try.

"No," he admits shamefully. He rubs the back of his neck and drops his gaze, suddenly feeling unworthy of her presence. "I— I beg your forgiveness, my lady. It was a foolish question."

She steps closer and peers up at him, a knowing look in her eyes. The moonlight slants through the nearby window and falls across her face, illuminating the delicate lines of the tattoos on her forehead and the steep curve of her eyelashes; in the back of his mind, Cullen thinks she looks like one of the faeries from the stories Mia used to spin for him every night before bedtime—hair as pale as spider silk and eyes greener than grass, tempting passersby with her sweet, soft voice and honeyed words. He watches raptly as yet another lock of hair tumbles free of its confines, coming to rest soundlessly near the curve of her jaw.

Sadness clouds her features, and his heart constricts painfully in his chest, knowing he is the cause of it. "Not foolish," she assures him softly. "Premature, maybe, but definitely not foolish."

Hesitantly, she reaches out and rests a hand on his forearm. Cullen should hate himself for how much he relishes her heated touch. It is wrong—so _wrong,_ and completely inappropriate for someone of his station. He presses against the edge of the workstation, choosing instead to focus on the way the wood bites painfully into his lower back.

Aerin'ahl purses her lips and studies him with a peculiar expression on her face, almost like he is a puzzle she is to put together. "We are not so different, you and I. I do not know what keeps you awake at night, but… perhaps we keep our secrets for similar reasons."

Her gaze softens imperceptibly and her index finger begins tracing small shapes into the muscles of his forearm. Cullen isn't entirely convinced she's not burning him in the process, leaving a series of looping, twisting scars for the rest of Thedas to see in the morning. Cullen's exhale is sharp, his laugh bitter.

"For your sake, I hope you are wrong about that."

"I suppose only time will tell," she says quietly, and lets her hand fall back to her side. She smiles faintly. "I have few friends in Haven, Cullen, but I count you among them. Should you ever wish to talk, I will gladly listen."

A subtle warmth begins to spread through Cullen's chest, almost as if she had reached in and squeezed his heart with her heated fingers. He inclines his head to hide the rosy stains on his cheeks. "I'm not sure I'll ever be fully comfortable talking about such matters with anyone, but I appreciate the sentiment. Truly, Lady Lavellan. It means a lot to hear you say so."

She laughs quietly through her nose and the puff of air tickles the hairs on his forearm. "After all that, you still won't use my name? And you're welcome."

"Aerin'ahl," he amends, relishing the way the foreign syllables roll across his tongue. Her ears twitch imperceptibly and suddenly he feels uncertain. "Or am I saying it wrong?"

"Uh," she trails, blinking rapidly. A moment passes before she continues. "No, you said it right. Forgive me. It's just been so long since I've heard someone say my full name," she murmurs, averting her gaze. She shuffles her feet. "You may also call me Aerin, if you like. Varric says it's easier to yell across a battlefield. I suppose he's not entirely wrong."

"Which do you prefer?"

Her gaze snaps back to his, eyebrows knitted together and eyes wide. Her lips move soundlessly before she finally says, "I think you're the first person to ask me that. Aerin is fine—when it's just the two of us, I mean. I have to keep up appearances."

"Of course," he replies, smirking. "Aerin."

She closes her eyes and tilts her head back toward the ceiling, a smile stretched across her lips. The pale column of her neck looks inviting, to say the least. "You know, for a second there, things almost felt normal again. _Ma serranas, ma falon_."

The words are unfamiliar but their meaning is clear, and the sleeping embers in Cullen's chest ignite into a blaze that he knows will never be extinguished. He doesn't care. For her, it is a pleasure to burn.

* * *

 **I hope the wait was worth it. Please review!**

 **Also, I'm currently working on a modern AU story about the Inquisitor and Cullen. I usually hate modern AU stories, but that's probably because I've rarely ever seen them done well. Maybe I could change that. (I don't want to give it all away, but wouldn't it be interesting if my mage Inquisitor was legally required to inform her neighbors or anyone living within 500 feet that she's a mage? Imagine how much it would upset Cullen. I think I could swing it. Idk. Thoughts, anyone? It would be a modern AU story for people who hate modern AUs.)**


	5. Velleities and Carefully Caught Regrets

It is supposed to feel good to return to Haven after their trip, but Aerin'ahl has long since become accustomed to being wrong about these kinds of things.

After that—Creators, that _disaster_ in Redcliffe, she expects the sights of the gates to give her the same sense of relief the aravels of her clan once did, back when she was younger and her ideals had not yet turned to ash in her mouth; seeing those crimson sails fluttering above rolling fields of knee-high grass always seemed to ground her, to remind her that she was home and safe. The Inquisition doesn't have aravels, of course, but when the grey, weathered stones of the chantry tower come into sight, banner fluttering lazily in the breeze, she still expects to feel that familiar sense of crushing relief—

But it never comes.

She feels nothing. No release, no respite from the tension that has taken up residence in her neck and shoulders from the moment she fell through time and into a scarlet nightmare built of her own failures. The feeling of suffocation only gets worse as she nears the gates; the Frostbacks suddenly seem much closer than when she left, looming over her like they intend to crumble and demolish all she has helped build, and every hushed whisper from the soldiers hits her harder than a blunted arrow. She glances sidelong at Cassandra—her regal chin is lifted high in the air and a small, satisfied smile plays at her lips, looking every bit the storybook hero returned home. On the other side of the Seeker's horse, Varric looks similarly relieved to be back as he tells Blackwall one of his numerous jokes, eyes bright and laugh uproarious.

They all look so—

So _happy._

How? Her mind struggles to grasp their reasoning with numb, clumsy fingers. How can they look so blithe, so carefree? How can they _smile?_ The fate of the world hangs in the balance, the possibility of total destruction more real than it has ever been, and they dare to laugh like nothing has happened?

But that's just it, isn't it, Aerin'ahl thinks—nothing _has_ happened. Bile creeps up the back of her throat, as sour and unwelcome as the realization itself.

Unbidden, Aerin's eyes dart over her shoulder in Dorian's direction. His horse is near the edge of the group, slightly separated from the rest of them by a good twenty feet; she quietly wonders if he is struggling as much as she is with the memories of that dreaded future. If he notices her staring, he does not show it.

There is no catharsis when she hands the reins of her hart to Master Dennet at the stables, nor when she carefully peels her dented, ill-fitting armor off in her cabin. There will be time for a bath later, she tells herself, and she pulls on a fresh white shirt and crimson cloak before setting out once again. She leaves her staff in her cabin in hopes of lessening the weight on her shoulders, but it does not work.

She gives her report to her advisors in the war room—Cassandra sticks close by, always within arm's reach should Aerin's quivering knees finally give out beneath her. She retells the events of Redcliffe in a hushed, hollow voice that sounds unfamiliar to her own ears: she tells them of the Elder One, the lyrium, the templars; of the fall of the Inquisition, battered to nothingness against the walls of the castle after countless siege attempts; she even tells Leliana of the part she played in the nightmare in a shaky, brittle voice that threatens to shatter. When she begins to struggle with her words, Cassandra calmly informs them of the alliance with the mages. Josephine and Leliana take the news in stride and immediately begin preparations.

Aerin'ahl cannot bring herself to look at Cullen—his stony silence says more than enough.

The knot in her chest does not loosen when she bathes later that night, taking the time to extricate the dirt and blood and soot from every crevice of her body. She scrubs herself until she is pink and raw and hurting, almost as if the washcloth is capable of wiping away the memories that haunt her—memories of a future stained red with lyrium and blood and so much _death_.

For the first time in years, she quells her inner fire and embraces the frigid water until she shivers. Being numb is a more appealing alternative.

The days pass slowly after that. The people of Haven are watching her more closely than ever before and their concerned looks weigh on her like armor, heavier than the light, flowing mage robes she is used to. She still hears the whispers of _maleficar_ from many of them; their eyes are peeled for any sign of weakness, but she does not dare give them the satisfaction of seeing her stumble. Her footsteps are steady and sure as she makes her rounds and attends to tasks left neglected during her absence, pretending to be everything she isn't and nothing she wants to be.

She gradually falls into a routine, which helps a little bit: she practices her reading in Josie's office, huddled on the floor behind her desk with a book in one hands and a small flame in the other for light; she walks the Fade with Solas, learning all she can about the People and focusing the source of her power; other times, she finds herself laid out on her back underneath the war table, carving small symbols and Elvhen words into the wood—no one ever thinks to look for her there.

The rest of her day is usually spent working with Harritt on a new set of armor that can "deflect more than a damned butter knife." She offers him the use of her flames in exchange for his gruff, companionable silence and smithing expertise, which he gladly provides. They spend hours smelting, forging, and hammering out thin, delicate plates of metal until they fit her curves like a second skin, chain clinging closely and scarlet fabric draping across her shoulder and waist elegantly.

"Armor fit for a Knight-Enchanter," Harritt tells her—and for a moment, she is pleased.

But these are only temporary distractions, tasks she has assigned herself to keep her mind from wandering back to Redcliffe. At night, she avoids her nightmares by crafting runes instead of potions. She does not go to Adan's anymore for fear of stumbling upon Cullen. With the sudden influx of mages, he has been more temperamental than usual, or so say the recruits in the tavern—Aerin doesn't know if she has the strength to stand having that anger turned in her direction, so steering clear of him is probably best for now. Her midnight stints in the apothecary eventually turn into snowy treks out to the Inquisition logging stand near the north side of the lake, where she whiles away the hours by gazing up at the swirling Breach; she is perfectly content to sit there in the snow and turn her ironbark puzzle box over in her hands again and again until the sun peeks over the tips of the Frostbacks the next morning, staining the sky pink rather than its usual sickly shade of green.

The routine has helped. She still feels like she is drowning, suffocating—but at least she can feel enough to know how much she hurts. It's an improvement.

Varric and Solas worry, as do the rest of her companions: Vivienne offers her tea in the chantry one evening, an invitation she politely declines; Sera and Varric suggest going to the tavern and getting drunk, but she has never enjoyed the sharp, acrid taste of human alcohol and turns them down, too; the Iron Bull gives her a rather large stick and tells her to hit him—she actually agrees to that one, but it doesn't help much. One by one they try to speak to her, to pry out her pent-up emotions, but she always manages to slip away before she loses her carefully-maintained composure. She makes her excuses and hides—behind the chantry, in the woods, behind the locked door of her cabin sometimes—before she crashes to her knees, gasping and sobbing.

The only one who doesn't bother her is Dorian. She doesn't quite know what to make of the Tevinter mage at first—he chooses to sit by himself at meals and hides away in the chantry library, poring over the books and muttering to himself in a language she does not know. He watches her sometimes, whenever she makes her rounds or blows through the chantry on the way to the war room. It may be a trick of the light, but she thinks the shadows beneath his eyes are the same ones that plague her so readily, staining her tanned complexion like bruises. Their eyes do not meet often, but when they do she always makes sure to find the strength to give him a shaky, understanding smile. He always returns it.

Then one day, he approaches her at breakfast, silently taking the seat next to her with his food and a thick spell tome under his arm with unreadable words. He does not say anything to her—he offers no platitudes, no promises of a time when she will feel better, because he knows just as well as she does that that time will never come. He simply sits next to her and devours his meal, the only sound between them being the shuffled turn of a page every now and then.

And after a few days of this companionable silence, he offers her a grape.

"Oh. Thank you," she says, taking it from his fingers and popping it into her mouth. She chews slowly, savoring the tartness.

Dorian turns another page, eyes flicking up to meet hers for the briefest of moments. "Do not thank me just yet. That chantry mother of yours saw that little exchange. I expect you'll be on the receiving end of a lecture before the day is out."

Aerin'ahl glances surreptitiously in the direction of Mother Gisele, who does indeed look rather horrified. "You think so?"

"No question about it, my dear. You might even have a food taster by the end of the week."

The corners of her mouth quirk upward unevenly, stiff with disuse. "I see. In that case, may I have another?"

Dorian smiles, closes his book, and offers her half the cluster. Things are easier after that.

* * *

"So, tell me," Dorian says, peering closely at the flames licking Aerin's fingertips, "have you always been able to do this? I've never seen anything quite like it."

The fireball in Dorian's hand is bright and well-contained, the wild orange tendrils of his spell ghosting over Aerin's skin painlessly. His expression is an endearing mixture of awe and bewilderment; he has been trying to burn her for an hour now with little success—or any success, really. He first tried to do it with sparks, then with the smoldering end of a twig, and now with an open flame. With a snort, she dispels the flames in his palm and allows her hand to fall back to her side.

"It's difficult to say," she tells him truthfully. "I didn't exactly make a habit of touching fire before my magic manifested. And I'm not _completely_ immune."

Dorian hums, eyebrows furrowing. "Please elaborate, my dear."

"Which part?"

"All of it, preferably. I'll die of curiosity if you don't—or maybe frostbite. I'm not sure which is worse at this point."

"I don't see how you could possibly get frostbite. You're wearing half of all the pelts in Haven." She looks him up and down; he's bundled up in layers of fur and woolen mantles to help stave off the bitter cold of the Frostbacks. Aerin thinks he looks quite amusing in such a puffy state. "Planning on using my methods for yourself?"

To prove her point, Dorian shivers and pulls his velvet collar tighter. " _Yes._ Sweet Maker, if you don't tell me, I might be forced to side with this so-called Elder One. I bet he's got his whole operation set up someplace sunny and… I don't know, civilized. _"_

"Orlais, then? Or are you talking about Tevinter?"

"Orlais is certainly an option. Tevinter might be a bit avant-garde for someone targeting Ferelden in his quest for world domination." He sneers at the frozen landscape. " _Ferelden_ , of all places. What is the world coming to?"

She doesn't say anything, and Dorian winces at his own words. They know the answer to that question better than anyone in Thedas, even if they wish they didn't.

"Come on," Aerin'ahl murmurs, elbowing him softly. "Let's finish our walk."

Wordlessly, he holds out an arm for her to take and they continue their stroll past the stables, feet crunching rhythmically in the snow. She nods and smiles to passing messengers and waves at Harritt, who holds up a hammer in greeting from the mouth of the forge. The smithy is alive and bustling this morning in preparation for the march on the Breach. A fortnight, they'd decided. Then it will be over.

A pang of sorrow pierces her chest. Fourteen days feels like a heartbeat compared to the months she's spent with the Inquisition. Against her will, Aerin'ahl's eyes dart over toward the training grounds where the soldiers are finishing up their morning drills; Cullen is watching over the recruits in silence, eyebrows furrowed and mouth set in a thin line—another headache, no doubt. She wonders if he has already gone through the tea she gave him before she left for Redcliffe.

"You're extra quiet today," Dorian murmurs, resting a hand over hers on his arm. "Trying to come up with an answer to my question?"

She sighs. "Forgive me. I was just thinking."

"Well, think a little closer, if you don't mind. You're hotter than a furnace."

Aerin'ahl laughs and leans her weight into his shoulder. She stokes her inner fire in compliance, ignoring the seeping wetness of rapidly-melting snow between her toes. "Better?"

"Much," he says, but his brow furrows in confusion. "Normally, I would thank you for expending so much mana for my benefit, but I— well, I actually can't sense how much you're using. It's almost embarrassing to admit. I would say I'm losing my edge, but we both know that's not possible."

She waves him off. "Don't worry about it; I'm hardly using any."

"Truly?"

"Oh, yes," she says, shrugging lightly. "I think I was about ten when I figured out I could keep myself warm in the winter by reserving some of my mana each morning. I guess I never stopped doing it. It sort of just… happens now. I don't have to consciously cast the spell anymore." He opens his mouth to ask another question, but she quickly adds. "The fire immunity came later."

" _Fascinating_. Your mana stores must be vast—much larger than any apostate I've ever been around, at least," he marvels. He pauses and purses his lips to think before adding, "Do me a favor and never go to Tevinter. I don't think they'd ever let you leave."

"I'm guessing that's not a compliment?"

"A backhanded one, I suppose. The magisters would never be careless enough to let someone like you out of their nasty little clutches—you'd be their favorite party trick for no less than two seasons."

Aerin'ahl shudders at the thought. Dorian has told her many things about his homeland, but only a handful of them have been good; Minrathous reminds her of some of the rarer plants she studied in her youth—breathtakingly beautiful, but more poisonous than deathroot. Deceitful in all the right ways. She huffs determinedly and squeezes his arm tighter.

"Who needs Tevinter for that?" she says bitterly, her voice low. "I've heard what the soldiers say about me when they think I'm not paying attention. I'm nothing but an entertaining sideshow to these people, these… _shemlen_. You'd think they've never seen a mage before."

"They've seen mages, my dear, but not ones like you," Dorian says. He taps his index finger lightly against her forehead, once, twice. "Had you been in a Circle, you would've been made Tranquil whether you liked it or not. Solas, too."

A shiver runs down her spine. "Don't even joke about that."

Dorian looks down at her gravely, the corners of his mouth twisted into a grimace that looks remarkably out of place. "I may joke about many things, but I _never_ joke about Tranquility. I am merely stating facts, as cruel as they may be."

She clenches her fist, crushing the fabric of his sleeve. "Of course," she tells him quietly. "Forgive me. I knew about Tranquility before I left my clan, but seeing it firsthand and talking about it is... difficult."

"A barbaric practice," he agrees, leading her past the stables. Aerin'ahl's hart bugles softly and tosses his antlers as they pass. "One of my first cousins was made Tranquil many years ago. We were quite close when we were younger. He was… oh, I don't know. Thirteen, maybe? I can't remember exactly. Haunting stuff, that."

Unbidden, a memory of bright eyes and lips stained blue with lyrium flashes through her mind. _Tel'din ashalan_.

"Yes," she says hollowly. "Haunting."

Dorian glances sidelong at her, one eyebrow arched. "Someone you know?"

"Knew. She has been dead for many years."

"Ah. I see. Were you close?"

"As close as a mother can be to her daughter."

She feels the muscles in his arm jump beneath her fingers in shock, but he is careful enough to keep it from showing on his face—for her sake, she knows. Dorian studies her with concern etched into his expression as they approach the gates of Haven, his mouth curved into a small, sad smile. "For what it's worth, I am sorry."

She manages to muster up a warm smile. "It is worth quite a bit, actually. Thank you."

He leans over to plant a chaste kiss on the top of her head, right next to the looping braid by her right ear—Theriel always used to kiss her before he left for his hunting trips.

"Would you care to talk about it?" Dorian asks hesitantly. "I'll be the first to admit I'm not the most comforting person in the world, but I've been told I make a rather dashing listener."

She shuffles closer to him and leans her head on his shoulder. They turn toward the dock by the edge of the frozen lake, footsteps slow and steady against the backdrop of clanging swords and grunts of exertion from the training grounds. "It's kind of you to offer, but there's not much to talk about," she says. "I miss her, yes, but I feel no sorrow over her loss. Death was far better than the alternative, in any case."

"Tranquility being the alternative, I assume."

"Yes," she says quietly. "She was only Tranquil for four moons before Falon'din guided her to the Beyond. Her passing was a blessing in many ways."

Dorian makes a low humming noise in his throat. "I risk sounding like a bumbling moron here, but I wasn't aware the Dalish used Tranquility."

Aerin's jaw clenches. " _We_ don't," she mutters.

He makes a soft _ah_ sound and inclines his head forward; the corners of his mouth are tight with displeasure and grim understanding. "I see. Templars?"

Aerin'ahl nods mutely and gazes out across the frozen lake in the direction of the Breach. The dry wood of the dock feels pleasant against her bare feet, warm from the sunlight despite the chill in the air. With a soft exhales she releases Dorian's arm and sits down at the far edge of the dock; her feet dangle over the edge, toes barely brushing the blue-green ice below. Dorian sits next to her, for once not complaining about the dirty ground and the state of his robes. Several beats of silence pass them by, the only sound between them being the noise of the recruits and echoes of the smithy in the distance.

He breaks the silence first. "I can't imagine what it must be like to have your mother taken away. Mine is always drunk, but that's hardly a comparison," he murmurs, and looks up at the Breach with a frown. " _Kaffas_. And then that thing just _had_ to come along and make your life more difficult. I don't know how you do it, my friend."

"My sorrows are old, so my burden is not as heavy as you think," she assures him. "I joined the Inquisition out of necessity in the beginning, but I have stayed because it is the duty Mythal has bestowed upon me. Besides, I have the same level of responsibility as everyone else."

At this, Dorian laughs loudly. He bumps her with his shoulder, eyes still crinkled around the edges with true mirth. "Come now, you can't truly believe that, can you? You're the Herald of Andraste, their bloody savior! You've got more heaped on your plate than anyone in Thedas."

Aerin'ahl shrugs. She leans back against the dock and closes her eyes against the brightness of the sun, enjoying the roughness of the dock against her back through the thin material of her shirt. "But I have no power—I control no spy network, I hold no sway with the nobles, nor do I control our armies. I am a servant of the Inquisition, same as those soldiers over there," she says, pointing blindly in the direction of the training grounds. "My advisors have much harder jobs."

Dorian's voice is dry, "Yes, it must be _terribly_ difficult to sit behind a desk and write letters all day. Swinging a sword at demons is somuch easier." He turns to look back toward the practicing soldiers. "Quite frankly, I'm not convinced our lovely Commander's job doesn't solely consist of him standing around and looking angry all the time. Please tell me I'm not the only one who's noticed."

She smacks his arm blindly. "Don't be cruel. The commander is not that bad."

"Not that bad?" he asks dubiously. The Tevinter turns and looks back in Cullen's direction with his head cocked to one side, contemplating. "He's not that bad to look at, for certain, but I find his manners to be a bit… I don't know, lacking? Nonexistent?" He snorts. " _Kaffas_ , look at his face. He looks angry enough to start three wars by sundown."

At his words, Aerin'ahl goes to defend him—

But she hesitates. She has never before had the luxury of a friend like Dorian. There was Tannyll, of course, and a few hunters she conversed with every now and then, but she isn't quite sure if friendship is done the same way in Tevinter as it is back home. Is she supposed to laugh with him, agree with every belittling comment he throws in Cullen's direction? If she defends him, will Dorian be upset? She doesn't know.

She decides to take her chances.

"Try to understand," she says slowly, her voice smaller than before. "This has been a rough couple of days for him—he's not used to being around this many mages. I think we make him nervous."

"Mages making a templar nervous? I'm _shocked."_

She lets out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding—he sounds amused, not angry. A good sign.

"Cullen's not a templar anymore," she explains, "so you can't really hold that against him. It took me a while to see that. He was in Kirkwall when the rebellions started, you know."

At this, Dorian's eyebrows fly up into his hairline. "Kirkwall, really?"

"Mm. He told me a while ago. He was stationed at the Gallows."

"I'm... surprised he's not dead."

"By all rights, he probably should be," she tells him. "I wasn't there, but my clan was only a day or two from Sundermount when it all happened. The stories we heard were horrible enough—but Cullen was _there_ when it happened, for all of it. The whole thing." She shakes her head slowly, deliberately. "Creators. After something like that, I think he has every right to be afraid of us."

Dorian's face softens around the edges, and he tilts his head to one side. "You truly believe that?"

"I do," she says. "Fear like that doesn't come from nowhere. Whatever his reason, I'm sure he's justified in his distrust of mages, just like you and I are justified in our distrust of the Order."

Dorian is quiet for several moments as he mulls over her words. His fingers are tapping a steady rhythm against the dock and the trees are rustling their branches in the gentle breeze; the noises of the forest are almost strangely hesitant, muted, and far-away. Aerin misses the sound of rustling leaves—the Frostbacks are too cruel to allow anything to grow here except bare, spindly branches and bushels of nettlesome pine needles.

"I suppose I can see your point," Dorian says finally, and she looks up at him. He is staring out across the frozen lake, his face wistful for a brief moment before he shakes himself and frowns. "Still, I don't think he likes me very much. I can at least hold that against him."

She snorts. "You know, for a while I was convinced he hated me, but he came around eventually. It just took him a few weeks to warm up to me."

"Ah, yet another stain on his character," Dorian quips, and looks down at her with a cheeky grin. He answers her questioning look, "He didn't immediately fall in love with you like the rest of us—that scary Seeker lady notwithstanding, or so I heard. Varric told me she threw you in prison and tortured you for a week before she let you out."

Aerin'ahl rolls her eyes and scoffs. "He likes to exaggerate. I was only chained up for a little while."

"What a shame. It made for an excellent story," he mutters. "I guess this means Commander Cullen didn't pull his sword on your when you first met?"

"Blood of Mythal, _no._ We didn't have the best start, certainly, but it was nothing like that." Aerin bites the inside of her cheek, her thoughts drifting. "I think he was frightened of me when we met. Sometimes I think he still is." She looks up at Dorian with wide eyes. "I'm not that scary, am I?"

"When you're fighting, you're bloody terrifying," he tells her lightly, "but right now, not so much. You're about as threatening as a freshly-baked sweetroll." He glances over his shoulder in the direction of the commander, mouth twisting. "He's going to wrinkle prematurely if he keeps that up, though."

With a grunt, Aerin'ahl arches her back and rises up on her shoulders, tilting her head to look toward the training grounds. Cullen looks strange upside down but she can clearly see the lines of strain in his neck and shoulders and the deep crease between his brows. His lips are thin and turned down at the corners in displeasure—or is it pain? He begins to speak to Knight-Captain Rylen about something and Aerin'ahl sees the commander wince when he turns too quickly to answer a question _._

 _Definitely pain._

Rylen leaves with a barked order she can't understand at this distance, the words lost to the rustling of the trees in the breeze. Cullen turns back to the recruits and crosses his arms over his chest as he watches them, shouting out orders and corrections.

"See?" Dorian prods her, but she is only half-paying attention to him. "I'm half-expecting those soldiers to burst into flames."

She hums noncommittally in response, only half-listening to her friend as she studies Cullen's face; his shoulders are impossibly broad under his pauldrons and his jaw is set firmly as he observes the remainder of afternoon drills, eyes narrowed and arms crossed over his chest in cold indifference. His hair reflects gold in the sunlight, a harsh contrast to her own cold, quicksilver tresses. Cullen stands resolute in the clearing, feet planted in the same spot as always, and the familiarity gives Aerin the sudden urge to go over and strike up a friendly, familiar conversation. It would be so easy.

Then, as if he can feel her gaze on him, Cullen suddenly tenses and tears his eyes from the recruits, searching the grounds with an even deeper scowl than before. He turns toward the dock—

His molten gaze falls on her, and suddenly she can't tell which way is up.

She feels an odd, sharp lurch in her chest like her heart has stopped for the briefest of moments; it's the same pang of pain-but-not-pain she experienced that night in Adan's when he finally used her name, the strange syllables rolling off his tongue in a way that both fascinated and frightened her. Cullen's eyes widen fractionally when he realizes she's staring straight back at him, two spots of color blossoming in the apples of his cheeks even redder than the tip of his nose in the frosty air. She cannot help but grin—he looks like a halla frozen in torchlight, eyes wide with shock and faint horror but unable to look away from the source.

Across the clearing, Cullen blinks at the sight of her smile and his lips part slightly in surprise. He is only off-balance for a moment, though. He glances surreptitiously back at the recruits to make sure no one is watching before turning back to give Aerin a faint half-smile that makes her heart pound erratically in her chest.

"Oh," Dorian says quietly. " _Oh."_

"What?" she murmurs distractedly, still watching Cullen. He's rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting between her and the practicing recruits rapidly before he chances a small wave in her direction. She bites her lower lip and waves back.

"Sweet, flaming Andraste. Could you be any more obvious?"

She manages tears her gaze from Cullen and shields her eyes from the sun, squinting up at Dorian with an irritated expression. "Are you planning on clarifying anytime soon?"

Dorian leans over her, blotting out the sun, and flashes a knowing grin. He clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and slowly shakes his head back and forth. "You little minx. You're sleeping with him, aren't you? I'm almost hurt you kept something so juicy from me."

At first, she frowns, not understanding his meaning. Why would she need to sleep with him? They both have their own cabins, they're perfectly capable of—

And then Aerin remembers a particularly raunchy story Varric told her a few weeks back about a pirate captain from Kirkwall, and suddenly the words make a whole lot more sense. She lets out a strangled noise and jackknifes into a seated position.

She sputters a strange mixture of Elvhen and Trade that sounds more like noise than actual words before her brain catches up." _What?_ I'm not— _fenedhis_ , no! How could you say such a thing?"

Dorian lifts a skeptical eyebrow and quickly dispels the sparks that are spitting uncontrollably from her fingertips like a lit fuse with a wave of his hand. He jerks his head in the direction of the commander. "You were ogling each other like lovesick teenagers. What was I supposed to think?"

"Anything!" she cries, waving her hands around wildly. "Anything else but _that_. Creators, Dorian, have you no shame?"

"None whatsoever. It's why I'm so popular at parties back home," he deadpans. Dorian holds up his hands in mock surrender, still chortling, and ducks out of the way of a firm punch to the shoulder. "All right, all right, I'll stop! There's no reason to hit me."

"There's _every_ reason to hit you."

He scoffs, "I was only stating the obvious! For the love of Andraste, he saw you and blushed up to his ears like a chantry boy in a brothel! And you," he says, pointing a finger at her, "were grinning like a fool. A _fool_ , I tell you. It seemed like a perfectly logical conclusion."

With an aggravated huff, Aerin'ahl flops back down on the dock and crosses her arms over her chest indignantly. The clouds are suddenly _very_ interesting and her cheeks are _very_ hot. "Well, you're wrong. We're just colleagues." She pauses, considering. "Or, we were before Redcliffe, at least."

"Sounds ominous. I take he didn't approve of the alliance?"

"You could say that," she grumbles. Then uncertainty slips through the cracks and she sighs. "At least, I _think_ that's the reason. That was the first time he's made eye contact with me since we came back."

"He looked happy enough to see you," Dorian says suggestively, raising one eyebrow. "Tickled pink, even, and I mean that literally."

She shoves him. "Shut up. He did not."

"He did."

"No he _didn't."_

"I'd venture to say he looked rather enamored with you."

"Please stop."

"I bet you would have adorable childr—"

With a shriek, Aerin lunges toward him in an attempt to— well, she doesn't really know what she wants to do, but incinerating his mustache seems like a brilliant start.

* * *

 **Had to cut this one in half. It was getting ridiculous. Hope you liked it!**


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